i 


I 
ELECTIONS  from  the 


i 


\  • 


>ROSE  AND  POETIC :       WRITINGS 

"JOHN  S  A  VARY 


HHH 

; 


1832-1910 


I!  Hi  ii  I 


GIFT  OF 


jilemorial  Volume 


SELECTIONS  FROM 

THE  PROSE  AND  POETICAL  WRITINGS 
OF  THE  LATE 

JOHN  SAVARY 

EDITED  BY  HIS  FRIEND 

JOHN  ALBEE 


TO  WHICH  IS  ADDED  A  GENEALOGICAL   RECORD  OF  THE 
SAVARY-HALL  FAMILIES  BY 

MISS   MARION   H.  SHUMWAY 


Chicago 

PRIVATELY   PRINTED 
1912 


\ 


JS 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE       fW) 

The  selections  from  the  writings  of  the  late  John 
Savary  are  offered  to  his  friends  in  the  spirit  "that 
though  dead  he  still  speaketh."  Mr.  Savary  was  a 
prolific  as  well  as  a  versatile  writer.  "A  poet,  historian 
and  naturalist,"  as  was  said  of  Goldsmith, 

"Who  left  scarcely  any  style  of  writing  untouched, 
And  touched  nothing  that  he  did  not  adorn." 

These  selections,  though  not  so  varied  as  Mr. 
Savary's  writings  admitted,  are  restricted  to  the 
preservation  of  those  some  of  his  friends  deemed 
desirable  for  preservation,  and  are  gathered  in  this 
form  to  meet  their  desire.  They  are  published  in 
pursuance  of  a  provision  of  his  will.  The  selections, 
out  of  an  enormous  mass  of  fragmentary  material, 
are  the  work  of  Mrs.  Mary  Sibley,  assisted  by  her 
daughter,  Mrs.  Clover  S.  Karcher,  and  Mrs.  Jane  H. 
Shernway  and  her  daughter  Marion,  all  of  Dorchester, 
Mass.,  and  all  related  to  the  testator.  It  has  been  done 
in  the  spirit  of  kinship  and  affection  and  is  very  satis 
factory. 

The  editorial  arrangement  of  the  book  in  prepara 
tion  for  publication  fell  to  the  hand  of  Mr.  John  Albee, 
whose  special  fitness  for  the  task  will  be  very  readily 
recognized,  since  he  was  a  lifelong  friend  and  college 
mate.  It  was  Mr.  Savary's  intention  to  have  revised 
the  MSS.,  but  the  work  was  deferred  from  time  to 
time,  and  dying  suddenly  all  was  left  in  a  chaotic 


251099 


fflitrofructotp 


condition.  The  Memorial  is  for  gratuitous  distribu 
tion,  intended  as  a  remembrance  to  friends.  Copies 
will  also  be  given  to  the  great  Libraries,  that  its  contents 
may  also  be  available  to  the  public. 

DANIEL  MURRAY. 

WASHINGTON,  D.  C.,  August  8,  1912. 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 

LIFE  OF  JOHN  SAVARY 

JOHN  SAVARY,  PHILANTHROPIST I 

FROM  MANUSCRIPT  NOTES  ON  HIS  OWN  LIFE  ...       8 
FROM  A  GENEALOGICAL   AND   BIOGRAPHICAL   RECORD 

OF  THE  SAVARY  FAMILIES 15 

FROM  THE  HALLS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND — GENEALOGICAL 

AND  BIOGRAPHICAL 22 

PART   II 

POEMS  OF  JOHN  SAVARY 

A  FEW  THOUGHTS  ABOUT  TRANSLATIONS     .  37 

POEMS 40 

PART   III 

ESSAYS  OF  JOHN  SAVARY 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 231 

BROWNING'S  ITALIAN  JOURNEYS 253 

OUR  "ANNUS  MIRABILIS  " 260 

NOVEMBER  BIRTHDAYS 269 


PART   I 

3Ufe  of 


JOHN   SAVARY,   PHILANTHROPIST 

The  name  Savery,  sometimes  spelt  Savary,  is  worthy 
of  remembrance  because  of  the  important  part  played 
in  a  world  'benefaction  by  one  bearing  that  name. 
The  family  is  an  old  one  and  is  quite  prominently  men 
tioned  in  English  history  by  reason  of  the  fact  that  one 
of  them,  Captain  Thomas  Savery,  is  recorded  as  patent 
ing,  as  early  as  1699,  an  atmospheric  steam  engine,  a 
picture  of  which  is  given  at  page  i6of  Galloway  's  History 
of  the  Steam  Engines,  London,  1831.  Savery  seems  to 
have  preceded  Thomas  Newcomen  and  John  Cawley 
in  the  matter  of  the  invention,  and  compelled  them,  by 
this  priority,  to  admit  him  to  a  partnership  in  what  is 
known  as  "Newcomen's  engine,"  in  1805.  They  at 
first  only  agreed  to  join  his  name,  but  he  showed  them 
by  irrefutable  proof  that  he  had,  as  early  as  1702,  pub 
lished  in  the  Miner's  Friend  a  full  description  of  his 
engine.  Savary,  in  fact,  exhibited  several  years 
earlier,  before  King  William,  the  model  of  his  engine, 
who  was  so  well  pleased  with  it  that  he  assisted  him 
powerfully  in  getting  his  patent,  which  was  granted  in 
1699.  It  seems  that  Newcomen,  who  lived  at  Dart 
mouth,  in  Devon,  following  the  trade  of  blacksmith, 
saw  a  picture  of  Captain  Thomas  Savery's  machine 
and  set  about  devising  a  mode  of  increasing  its  effi 
ciency.  The  design  being  to  keep  mines  free  of  water. 
In  his  effort  Newcomen  solicited  the  aid  of  John 

1 


2  :  •  ••';  ;• :  \.:       $fem$rial  Volume 


Cawley,  a  glazier  and  all-round  mechanic.  The  ma 
chine  thus  jointly  devised  by  Savery,  Newcomen  and 
Cawley,  in  1705,  worked  satisfactorily,  with  some 
minor  improvements,  until  1764,  a  period  of  fifty-nine 
years,  when  Mr.  John  Smeaton  succeeded  in  further 
improvements.  It  is  a  notable  fact  that  the  wonder 
ful  discoveries  in  steam,  made  by  James  Watt  that 
same  year,  1764,  grew  out  of  the  repairs  needed  on  a 
Savery  machine,  which  Watt,  as  a  skilled  mechanic, 
was  engaged  to  make,  and  becoming  interested  was 
induced  to  consult  Dr.  Black,  of  Edinburgh  an  emi 
nent  scientist,  on  the  "theory  of  latent  heat."  And 
from  this  Watt  developed  his  great  steam  engine. 

The  title  philanthropist  and  the  spirit  behind  it  is  as 
noble  as  any  in  the  world.  It  is  not  given  to  every  man 
with  the  altruistic  spirit  to  better  the  condition  of  his 
fellows  in  a  manner  equal  to  the  generous  promptings 
of  his  heart.  Many  who  have  the  means  to  become 
philanthropists  lack  the  nobility  of  soul  to  make  the 
necessary  sacrifice,  and  hence  the  title  philanthropist 
acquires  an  added  significance  whenever  applied. 

John  Savary,  the  subject  of  this  notice,  was  born  of 
true  New  England  stock  at  Ward,  now  Auburn,  a 
suburb  of  Worcester,  November  4,  1832,  the  son  of 
Stephen  and  Daphna  Savary.  His  parents  had  high 
hopes  for  the  lad,  their  sixth  child,  and  in  the  exuber 
ance  of  their  piety  dedicated  him  to  the  service  of  God. 
The  family  was  poor  and  had  to  gather  sustenance  for 
its  numerous  members  out  of  the  sterile  soil  common 
to  New  England  farms.  John  was  the  fifth  son,  and  to 
him  fell  the  opportunity  for  a  college  education,  because 
designed  for  the  ministry.  To  secure  this  boon  for 
him  meant  much  privation  for  his  brothers  and  sisters 


Itife  of  ^oftn  £atoarp 


older  than  himself.  After  leaving  village  school, 
where  he  received  his  rudimentary  education,  he  was 
sent  when  about  fifteen  to  Worcester  Academy,  where 
he  spent  several  years  in  collegiate  preparation,  and 
in  1852  entered  Williams  College,  graduating  A.  B. 
in  1855.  Among  his  classmates  were  James  A.  Gar- 
field,  later  President  of  the  United  States,  and  the  late 
J.  Ingalls  of  Kansas,  who  for  some  years  acted  as  Vice- 
President  and  was  for  eighteen  years  a  United  States 
Senator.  The  warm  friendships  thus  formed  lasted 
until  ended  by  death. 

After  leaving  Williams  College,  in  1855,  young 
Savary  entered  the  Divinity  School  of  Harvard  Uni 
versity,  from  which  he  graduated  in  1860.  It  was 
while  a  student  at  Harvard,  he  came  into  intimate 
association  with  Mr.  James  Russell  Lowell,  who  had 
been  named,  in  1854,  as  a  professor  of  French  and 
Spanish  Literature  at  the  University.  The  friendship 
thus  formed  lasted  during  life  and  left  a  deep  and 
abiding  impression  on  the  survivor.  Indeed,  it  formed 
one  of  the  three  ruling  passions  of  John  Savary's  life. 
First,  his  intense  admiration  for  the  genius  of  Mr. 
Lowell;  the  other  two,  his  remembrance  of  school  days 
at  Worcester  and  College  life  at  Williams.  He  joined 
Mr.  Lowell's  Dante  Class  to  study  the  works  of  the 
great  Italian  poet,  and  there  imbibed  a  strong  classical 
leaning  which  lasted  during  his  life.  In  a  letter  he 
says,  "From  the  Dante  Class  I  derived  more  profit 
and  pleasure  than  from  all  other  Cambridge  studies." 
He  was  a  profound  student  of  the  Greek  and  Latin 
classical  writers,  the  extent  of  which  will  be  seen  in  a 
perusal  of  his  diaries  and  books  bequeathed  to  Wor 
cester  Academy.  June  5,  1861,  Mr.  Savary  was 


Volume 


ordained  at  Newtonville,  Massachusetts,  a  minister 
of  the  Unitarian  faith,  and  began  his  labors  there, 
remaining  until  May,  1862,  when  he  yielded  to  the 
promptings  of  patriotism  and  joined,  in  June,  as  a 
private  (with  the  promise  of  a  Chaplaincy)  Co.  A,  47th 
Massachusetts  Volunteers.  He  did  not  become  a 
Chaplain,  but  was  assigned  to  service  in  connection 
with  the  Sanitary  Commission  and  stationed  at  City 
Point,  Virginia.  He  was  there  during  the  winter  of 
1864-65  and  was  there  at  the  surrender  of  General 
Robert  E.  Lee,  April  9,  1865.  The  war  at  an  end,  he 
returned  to  Cambridge  in  October,  1865,  and  entered 
Harvard  Law  School,  where  he  remained  but  a  single 
term.  In  July,  1866,  he  accepted  a  charge  at  South 
Hingham,  where  he  remained  until  March,  1868.  A 
few  months  later  he  went  south  to  New  Orleans  and 
thence  to  Florida,  returning  north  again  in  August, 
1869,  and  located  in  New  York,  serving  in  an  institu 
tion  there  as  teacher  of  classical  and  modern  languages. 
He  was  so  engaged  when  through  the  active  interest 
of  his  friend,  General  Garfield,  then  a  member  of  Con 
gress  from  Ohio,  he  received  an  offer  from  the  late 
A.  R.  Spofford  to  become  an  assistant  in  the  Library  of 
Congress,  and  March  i,  1871,  entered  upon  a  career 
in  that  institution  that  lasted  until  October,  1897, 
when  he  resigned. 

After  leaving  the  Library  of  Congress  he  had  no 
fixed  occupation,  rather  welcoming  the  opportunity 
for  travel  and  study  his  leisure  and  ample  means 
enabled  him  to  enjoy.  He  made  an  extended  journey 
to  the  Pacific  coast,  jotting  down  daily  the  impressions 
made  upon  him  by  his  observations.  On  his  return 
to  Washington  he  spent  much  time  at  the  "Cosmos 


ilife  of 


Club,"  an  organization  made  up  largely  of  literary 
men,  among  whom  he  felt  perfectly  at  home.  He  had 
in  the  early  days  of  his  career  made  some  prudent  in 
vestments  and  the  care  of  his  estate  gave  ample 
occupation  to  his  energies;  an  estate  which  at  his  death 
approximated  over  eighty  thousand  dollars.  In  the 
library  he  was  constantly  engaged  in  cataloguing  the 
books  in  foreign  languages,  his  classical  education 
fitting  him  somewhat  specially  for  that  class  of  work, 
and  was  regarded  by  Mr.  Spofford,  the  librarian  (1864- 
1897),  as  an  expert  bibliographer. 

He  died  in  his  bachelor  apartments  in  Washington, 
D.  C.,  May  18,  1910,  after  but  an  hour's  illness.  In 
his  will,  after  providing  for  those  who  had  claims  on 
his  bounty,  he  bequeathed  to  Williams  College,  twenty 
thousand  dollars,  the  income  to  be  expended  in  the 
purchase  of  books  for  the  college  library.  His  fine 
classical  library  of  nearly  3,500  volumes  he  gave  to 
Worcester  Academy,  where  he  received  his  early  train 
ing.  His  love  for  Worcester  Academy  is  thus  mani 
fested  by  the  following  extract  from  his  will: 

ITEM  3.  I  give  and  devise  to  " Worcester  Academy" 
in  the  City  of  Worcester,  Mass.,  all  of  the  books  (not 
otherwise  disposed  of  in  this  will)  which  are  now  in  my 
library  and  such  others  as  may  hereafter  be  acquired 
and  added  to  the  collection,  to  be  held  as  a  sacred  trust 
for  the  use  and  behoof  of  all  coming  pupils  of  the  Wor 
cester  Academy,  as  the  testator  was  once  a  pupil  there 
in  its  day  of  small  things,  and  would  fain  be  remembered 
for  this  gift  and  memento  in  the  cause  of  sound  learning 
and  literature. 

And  it  is  the  will  of  the  testator  and  hereby  made  an 
indispensable  condition  to  this  bequest,  that  these 
books  in  their  cases,  as  now,  for  the  most  part  kept  and 


Volume 


arranged,  shall  still  be  kept  together,  as  a  distinct 
collection  in  a  separate  alcove  or  section  of  the  library 
(that  is,  not  mixed  and  distributed  through  the  general 
mass),  to  be  known  as  the  "John  Savary  Collection," 
and  no  other.  The  only  other  condition  annexed  to 
this  bequest  is  that  of  requiring  the  keeper  or  custodian 
of  the  library  to  affix  or  cause  to  be  affixed  to  the  inside 
cover  of  each  and  every  colume  thus  given  and  be 
queathed  a  printed  label  stating  the  fact  of  such  be 
quest  with  the  name  of  the  donor  in  the  usual  style  and 
form  of  words  employed  for  that  purpose.  I  also  give 
to  Worcester  Academy  a  framed  portrait  of  myself  to 
be  hereafter  made,  together  with  the  following  portraits 
and  photographs,  to  wit:  I.  The  Bargello  Chapel  por 
trait  of  Dante,  with  Lowell's  autograph  inscription  on 
it  to  the  testator,  and  a  small  framed  portrait  of  Dante 
in  exile.  2.  The  fine  Florentine  Portraiture  on  wood 
of  Columbus.  3.  Framed  portraits  of  Burns  and 
Wordsworth,  and,  4.  The  large  engraving  of  Circe  and 
the  Swine  —  for  the  class  room  of  the  Greek  Professor. 
Furthermore  I  will  and  direct  that  my  MSS.  Collec 
tion  of  notes  and  memoranda  on  '  'Books  and  Reading, " 
including  diaries,  note  books,  journals,  etc.,  be  kept 
in  a  drawer  locked  up  and  accessible  only  to  specially 
interested  persons  who  may  have  occasion  to  use  the 
same  in  connection  with  my  life  and  writings,  should 
such  be  demanded,  but  all  my  loose  papers  and  un 
finished  writings  are  to  be  burnt  immediately. 

Of  John  Savary  it  may  be  truthfully  said,  as  Hazlitt 
said  of  Coleridge,  author  of  "The  Ancient  Manner," 
'  'To  this  man  has  been  given  in  high  measure  the  seeds 
of  noble  endowment,  but  to  unfold  them  had  been  for 
bidden  him." 

In  1901  Mr.  Savary,  then  about  to  visit  for  an  ex 
tended  sojourn  the  Pacific  coast,  made  his  will,  and  in 
casting  about  for  some  early  friend  in  whom  he  had 
unlimited  confidence  and  whose  fidelity  to  him  was 


3iife  of 


unquestioned,  he  recalled  Mr.  Daniel  Murray,  with 
whom  he  had  been  associated  during  twenty-six  years 
in  the  Library  of  Congress,  and  made  him  his  executor. 
To  him  he  confided  his  plans  and  detailed  his  wishes, 
saying,  "you  know  how  hard  it  is  for  a  man  to  secure 
after  death  an  exact  and  faithful  compliance  with  his 
expressed  wishes.  People  will  justify  their  intended 
substitution  of  their  own  views  by  deriding  the  sanity 
of  the  testator."  Mr.  Savary  made  several  wills  as 
changing  circumstances  made  such  necessary,  but  in 
all  of  them  he  ever  held  to  his  early  idea,  to  name  Mr. 
Daniel  Murray  as  executor.  One  of  the  provisions 
of  his  last  will  provided  an  annuity  for  his  housekeeper, 
Miss  Alice  E.  Hill,  born  November  12,  1851,  near 
Winchester,  Virginia,  a  woman  of  superior  mental 
culture,  which  had  been  greatly  improved  by  study  and 
European  travel.  She  was  a  graduate  of  the  Cooper 
Union  Institute  of  Art,  New  York,  taught  art  and 
French  in  a  young  ladies'  seminary  at  Mansfield, 
Louisiana.  In  September,  1880,  she  became  assistant 
in  the  South  Bend,  Indiana,  High  School,  but  in  1882 
went  to  Des  Moines,  Iowa,  to  teach  art  in  the  Callahan 
College,  and  two  years  later  to  Winnebago  City, 
Minnesota,  to  become  principal  of  its  High  School. 
In  1886  she  returned  to  South  Bend,  and  during  the 
succeeding  eight  years  was  special  teacher  of  drawing. 
Her  wide  experience  in  art  lines  and  extensive  reading 
in  the  classics  made  her  a  delightful  companion  to  a 
man  like  Mr.  Savary,  then  in  his  seventy-sixth  year, 
but  still  deeply  interested  in  literary  and  art  subjects. 
In  his  will  he  made  ample  provision  for  her  comfort, 
and  to  his  friend,  Daniel  Murray,  entrusted  the  duty 
of  carrying  the  same  into  effect.  How  well  he  per- 


jttemorial  Volume 


formed  the  task  is  amply  attested  by  numerous  letters 
from  her  relatives  following  her  death  in  March,  1912. 
Following  the  provision  of  the  will  of  Mr.  Savary 
relating  to  the  publication  of  such  of  his  MSS.  as 
might  be  deemed  worthy,  the  executor  entrusted  the 
selection  out  of  an  enormous  mass  that  had  previously 
been  somewhat  culled  to  Mr.  John  Albee,  a  lifelong 
friend  and  specially  gifted  in  literary  acumen,  to  aid 
in  the  work  of  preparing  the  same  for  the  press.  With 
Mr.  Albee  it  was  very  much  a  labor  of  affection,  in 
which  task  the  fine  literary  taste  of  his  wife  was  of 
inestimable  service.  It  was  the  expressed  intention  of 
Mr.  Savary  to  have  himself  revised  his  writings  prepara 
tory  to  the  publication  now  undertaken,  but,  dying 
very  suddenly,  the  whole  was  left  in  a  state  of  chaos. 
This  may  account  for  certain  blemishes  apparent  to 
the  eye  of  a  critical  observer.  The  executor  has 
sought  to  secure  the  best  result,  under  the  conditions, 
obtainable.  DANIEL  MURRAY. 


FROM  MANUSCRIPT  NOTES  ON  HIS 
OWN  LIFE 

Born  November  4,  1832.  Youngest  son  of  Stephen 
and  Daphne  Savary.  My  boyhood  was  passed  in  the 
country,  on  the  farm  where  I  was  born,  in  Auburn, 
Worcester  County,  Massachusetts,  the  home  of  my 
parents  up  to  the  year  1861. 

My  mother  was  a  Hall,  of  Sutton,  Massachusetts. 
Married  my  father  in  the  "cold  summer"  of  1816. 
Corn  that  year  was  ten  dollars  a  bushel.  But  marriage 
then  did  not  depend  so  much  on  the  price  of  corn  as  on 
willingness  to  bear  the  yoke  of  labor,  and  bravely  to 


of    toln  J>atoar  9 


take  a  share.  That  my  mother  was  that  sort  of  woman 
is  apparent  when  I  say  that  the  girl  of  fifteen  then 
spun  all  the  house  and  table  linen,  and  procured  her 
marriage  outfit  in  that  way,  and  not  by  sending  to 
Paris  for  a  trousseau.  The  old  spinning  wheel  made 
better  music  than  a  piano,  in  a  farmer's  kitchen,  and 
I  heard  my  mother  say,  —  it  was  at  her  golden  wedding 
in  1866  —  pointing  her  great-grandchildren  to  her 
dusty  old  wheel  which  on  that  occasion  was  brought 
down  from  the  garret,  "I  have  walked  by  that  wheel  a 
thousand  miles  when  your  father  was  asleep."  And 
so  she  had.  And  father  fell  asleep,  indeed,  about  two 
years  afterwards,  while  the  gray-haired  mother,  who 
has  seen  joy  and  sorrow  in  her  day,  still  lives  at  the  age 
of  81.  This  may  not  be  the  place,  yet  I  cannot  forbear 
my  homage  to  that  spirit  of  indomitable  hopefulness, 
energy  and  industry,  of  courage  and  continuance  in 
well-doing,  which  fifty  years  since  formed  a  noble  breed 
of  New  England  women,  housekeepers  and  housewives, 
of  which  my  mother  was  the  perfect  type  and  present 
ment  to  the  world.  God  help  New  England  if  the  breed 
is  gradually  to  die  out  and  become  extinct.  They 
were  the  nursing  mothers  of  our  Israel  in  Church  and 
State,  and  no  land  which  has  no  women  answering  to 
the  description  of  her,  or  the  good  wife,  in  Proverbs, 
chapter  thirty-five. 

If  the  domestic  virtues  of  industry  and  economy  were 
ended,  laid  away  with  the  old  hand-loom  and  spinning 
wheel,  when  these  went  to  the  loft  or  garret,  and  their 
place  supplied  by  a  thin  veneering  of  boarding  school 
accomplishments  in  the  young  women  of  our  time,  then 
no  man  would  be  justified  in  taking  the  risk  of  marriage 
and  all  that  it  implies.  But  marriage,  I  am  told, 


10  Hemotia!  Bolume 


always  develops  more  or  less  of  responsibility,  and 
many  a  giddy-head  belle  of  the  ball-room  develops  at 
length  into  a  sober  matron;  just  as  Wellington  said  of 
his  subaltern  officers  that  "the  puppies  fought  well" 
when  it  came  to  fighting.  I  do  hope  so,  for  the  sake 
of  the  future  of  my  country.  I  come  now  to  myself. 

Was  born  November  4,  1832.  Lived  all  my  early 
life  on  a  farm,  where  my  parents  continued  to  reside 
until  1861.  The  homestead  which  lay  under  the  brow 
of  a  hill,  at  the  entrance  of  a  narrow  and  sheltered 
valley,  was  half  a  mile  from  the  nearest  neighbor,  a 
mile  and  a  half  from  church,  the  same  distance  from 
school,  where  I  went  summer  and  winter,  and  two  and 
a  half  miles  from  the  post-office. 

Hence  a  letter  was  rarely  written  or  received  by  a 
member  of  the  family.  Once  a  week  the  old  post- 
rider,  "news  from  all  nations  lumbering  at  his  back," 
came  from  the  next  shire-town  along  the  country  road 
which  ran  lengthwise  the  valley,  leaving  a  dusty  white 
streak  in  the  summer,  and  sometimes  blocked  by  deep 
snows  in  the  winter  season.  Books  there  were  few  in 
that  farmhouse;  the  Bible,  of  course,  with  Watts' 
hymn-book,  the  old  English  reader,  the  ordinary  school 
books,  a  weekly  paper,  "Old  Farmer's  Almanac," 
which,  dingy  and  dog-eared,  always  hung  from  the 
mantle-piece  in  the  great  kitchen  with  its  broad  stone 
hearth  and  deep  fireplace,  was  found. 

A  story-book,  like  Pilgrim's  Progress,  or  Robinson 
Crusoe,  marked  an  epoch  in  our  lives.  I  have  since 
lived  with  books,  immense  libraries,  but  I  have  never 
been  able  to  read  with  that  intense  absorption  in  the 
spirit  and  soul  of  my  author  which  marked  my  early 
reading  of  books  like  Pilgrim's  Progress  and  Robinson 


of  *tin  £atoar  n 


Crusoe.  These,  like  the  reading  of  Bacon  and  Shakes 
peare  afterwards,  were  distinct  epochs  in  my  life.  For 
the  rest  my  occupations  were  wholly  agricultural, 
varied,  of  course,  by  the  arrival  of  holidays  of  cattle- 
show  and  Fourth-of-July.  (Muster  or  training  day,  I 
am  sorry  to  say,  had  perished  before  I  came  upon  the 
scene.)  To  these  may  be  added  —  and  they  could  not 
well  be  omitted  from  the  N.  E.  calendar  —  March 
Meeting,  Thanksgiving  and  fast  day.  In  brief,  as  here 
shown,  my  early  surroundings  were  those  of  a  solitary 
New  England  farmhouse  with  a  glebe  attached,  and 
which,  like  the  Sabine  farm  of  Horace,  was  in  the  wind 
ing  vale  —  '  'valle  reducta"  with  its  wooded  ridge  be 
hind,  the  wood  coming  down  about  to  the  back-door 
of  the  house,  with  its  clear  spring  or  well  in  which  the 
bucket  —  '  'the  iron-bound  bucket,  the  moss-covered 
bucket"-  -  always  hung  from  the  old-fashioned  sweep. 
This  old  homestead,  like  so  many  others,  long  since 
passed  from  the  possession  of  its  rightful  and  original 
owners.  I  shall  always  regret  this,  as  I  shall  never 
cease  to  be  grateful  that  I  was  born  and  brought  up  on 
a  farm  in  the  country,  nay,  that  I  had  for  a  time,  and 
the  best  time  of  my  life,  the  time  of  boyhood  and  youth, 
in  that 

"  Greenest  of  green  valleys, 
By  good  angels  tenanted." 

These  angels,  surely,  were  the  joys  of  Health  and  Labor, 
Sleep,  Knowledge,  Religion,  Hope  and  the  boundless 
Heart  of  Youth.  And  to  this  peculiar  environment,  to 
that  strange  and  solitary  farm,  with  some  Celtic  blood 
in  my  veins,  I  owe,  undoubtedly,  that  vein  of  romanti 
cism,  of  poetry,  and  mysticism  or  enthusiasm  which  is  a 
marked  trait  of  my  intellectual  character.  And  if  it 


12  Memorial 


has  sometimes  touched  and  darkened  my  life  with  the 
deepest  shadows,  with  omens  of  fate  and  of  dire  calam 
ity,  if  it  has  wrung  my  heart  with  doubts  and  with 
agonies  unspeakable,  it  has  also  opened  to  me  paths 
of  never-ending  enjoyment.  It  has  also  cheered  and 
consoled  me  with  my  beautiful  visions  along  the  way 
of  life.  It  led  me  first  to  school  away  from  home,  to 
the  country  academy  and  subsequently  to  college. 
It  opened  to  me,  in  a  word,  the  inexhaustible  fountains 
of  classic  lore,  and  those  farther  realms  of  philosophy 
and  science  which  unite  to  make  the  fortunes  of  a  soul. 
After  spending  four  years  at  Williams,  I  returned  home, 
teaching  for  a  season,  and,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  failing 
miserably  in  that  vocation.  I  had  neither  the  patience 
nor  the  training  for  a  successful  school-teacher. 

In  1857,  a  few  years  after  graduation,  I  went  to  the 
Cambridge  Divinity  School,  where  I  passed  three  years 
in  studying  for  the  ministry.  The  Cambridge  School 
theology  was  of  a  liberal  order,  and  I  was  told  on  enter 
ing  not  to  be  bound  by  any  creed,  not  to  swear  by  the 
words  of  any  writer.  My  religious  history  and  experi 
ence,  so  far  as  I  have  had  one,  was  in  accord  with  this 
enlightened  principle,  and  I  did  earnestly  hope  to 
devote  my  life  to  a  ministry  which  should  exemplify,  in 
carriage  and  conduct,  this  goodly  thought.  But  the 
tendency  of  all  institutional  religion  is  to  fixed  forms 
of  faith,  to  creed  and  dogma;  in  a  word,  to  some  species 
of  ecclesiasticism.  It  is,  perhaps,  inevitable  that  re 
ligion  should  take  these  forms;  and  as,  to  a  mind  wholly 
emancipated,  there  is  really  but  little  choice  in  the 
different  creed-forms  of  the  churches,  whether  termed 
liberal  or  evangelical,  the  natural  result  was  first,  pro 
test;  second,  revolt;  and  finally  resignation,  or  laying 


3tife  of    tofjn  J>afcar  is 


down  of  the  ministerial  office  and  functions.  All 
church  men  seemed  to  me  to  be  in  bondage  to  their 
church;  all  were  fettered  by  chains  forged  for  them  or 
by  them,  and  all  consequently  were  distasteful  to  a 
mind  which  prized  nothing  so  much  as  absolute  free 
dom  from  trammel,  in  honest  seeking  for  truth.  But  he 
who  assumes  the  clerical  office  is  supposed  to  be  no 
longer  seeking;  he  has  already  come  to  a  knowledge  of 
the  truth.  I  therefore,  after  a  few  trials,  gave  up  the 
ministry,  and  the  war  breaking  out  I  enlisted  in  the 
47th  M.  N.  M.  It  appeared  my  duty  then  to  defend 
the  flag,  and  religion  did  not  forbid  it.  I  embarked 
one  day  in  December,  1862,  at  Brooklyn,  New  York, 
on  board  of  a  transport  steamer  bound  for  New  Orleans. 
Our  regiment  landed  there  on  the  first  day  of  the  year 
1863  —  the  day  when  the  proclamation  of  emancipation 
went  into  effect  —  and  was  assigned  to  guard  duty  near 
the  city,  at  that  time  under  General  Banks.  We  did 
not  participate  in  any  engagement,  although  guns  from 
Port  Hudson  could  be  heard  where  we  were;  in  fact, 
I  remember  giving  a  Fourth-of  July-address  to  the  sol 
diers  in  camp,  which  was  punctuated  by  the  enemy's 
cannon.  After  nine  months  of  service  the  regiment 
returned  home,  going  up  the  Mississippi  River,  which 
was  just  then  opened. 

I  returned  again  to  my  books  and  pen,  which  had  been 
temporarily  laid  aside;  preached  occasionally;  feeling 
still  a  great  interest  in  the  issues  of  the  war.  I  joined 
the  Sanitary  Commission  in  the  winter  of  1864-65, 
went  to  City  Point  and  continued  in  hospital  service 
till  the  close  of  the  war.  After  that  I  returned  to 
Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  to  reside.  Was  settled 
for  a  year  at  South  Hingham;  went  West,  still  with 


14  jftemorial  Volume 

some  ministerial  prospects  in  view;  was  greatly  im 
pressed  with  the  country,  which  seemed  to  be  "all  out 
of  doors,"  and  with  the  character  of  the  Western 
people,  as  the  brags  of  creation.  I  grew  tired  of  that 
enormous  conceit  of  country  which  seemed  to  possess 
them.  Every  man  was  owner  of  a  sphere,  and  carried 
the  earth  in  fee  simple  in  his  vest  pocket.  The  flatness 
of  society  answered  the  flatness  of  the  earth  around 
there;  I  longed  again  for  the  hills  of  New  England. 

I  went  to  Florida  in  October,  1868,  prospecting  there 
with  a  view  to  settlement.  My  idea  was  to  plant  an 
orange-grove,  and  hoped  to  have  an  income  in  a  few 
years  sufficient  to  live  pleasantly  in  the  "land  of 
flowers."  But  the  country  was  new,  without  roads  or 
bridges,  and  outside  the  pale  of  civilization.  I  nearly 
relapsed  into  savagery,  living  three  months  alone  in  a 
hollow  tree,  and  making  no  advances  towards  the 
Utopia  of  my  dreams,  an  orange  crop  which  exists 
as  yet  only  in  my  imagination.  I  could  not  afford  to 
wait  ten  years  for  an  orange-grove  to  grow  up,  and 
meanwhile  support  myself  by  the  labor  of  my  hands, 
especially  as  I  had  no  companions,  or  rather  no  com 
panion.  After  six  months'  trial  I  gave  up  the  scheme 
and  turned  my  steps  back  again  to  civilization.  Having 
still  some  bookish  tastes,  I  sought  and  obtained  the  post 
of  assistant  librarian  in  the  Academy  of  Arts  and  Sci 
ences,  in  Boston.  I  remained  there  about  a  year  and 
then  made  application  through  General  Garfield,  which 
was  favorably  received  by  Mr.  Spofford,  Librarian  of 
Congress,  in  Washington,  D.  C.  This  was  in  the  spring 
of  1871. 
WASHINGTON,  October,  1881. 


%ife  of     rtm  J»afrar  is 


FROM 

"A  GENEALOGICAL  AND   BIOGRAPHICAL 
RECORD 

OF  THE 

SAVARY   FAMILIES    (SAVORY  AND  SAVARY) 

AND  OF  THE 

SEVERY  FAMILY 
(SEVERIT,  SAVERY,  SAVORY  AND  SAVARY) 

BY  A.  W.  SAVARY,  M.  A.,  OF  ANNAPOLIS  ROYAL,  NOVA  SCOTIA 

ASSISTED  IN  THE  GENEALOGY  BY 

Miss  LYDIA  A.  SAVARY  OF  EAST  WAREHAM,  MASS." 

PAGE  177.     THE    SEVERY   FAMILY   AND    SAVERYS  OF 
THE  SAME  ORIGIN 

The  first  American  progenitor  of  this  family  I  have 
found  at  Marblehead,  which  although  not  organized 
until  about  1635,  had  been  settled  about  1629  by 
immigrants  from  the  islands  of  Jersey  and  Guernsey, 
commonly  called  the  Channel  Islands,  off  the  coast  of 
France,  the  only  possessions  of  the  Dukes  of  Nor 
mandy  which  are  now  subject  to  the  English  Crown. 
In  the  Civil  War  between  Charles  I  and  his  Parliament, 
Jersey  was  Episcopalian  and  Loyalist,  and  Guernsey 
Parliamentarian  and  Puritan.  There  is  a  family  of 
Sivret  or  Syvret  in  both  islands,  from  one  of  which  I 
suspect  the  branch  now  treated  of  came;  the  name  first 
appearing  on  the  records  of  Marblehead  and  adjacent 
towns,  in  the  form  Sivret.  The  coat-of-arms  of  the 
Syvrets  of  Jersey,  as  given  in  Burke's  "General 
Armory,"  is  "Sable  a  lion  rampant  argent."  The 
name  under  the  form  Sivret  exists  to-day  among  the 


16  jftemoriai  Volume 

Acadian  French  of  New  Brunswick.  Many  of  the  old 
Norman-French  names  of  the  early  settlers  of  Marble- 
head  have  been  superseded  in  later  generations  by 
names  of  English  sound,  or  translations,  some  of  the 
latter  not  by  any  means  literal;  and  the  change  in  this 
name,  as  in  many  others,  arose  from  the  attempt  by 
school  teachers,  town  clerks,  and  pastors  of  churches 
to  spell  phonetically  in  English  a  peculiar  French  name. 
An  Englishman,  unversed  in  the  French  language, 
hearing  a  French-speaking  man  pronounce  the  name 
"Sivret,"  and  desiring  to  write  it  down,  would  be 
almost  sure  to  write  it  Scivery  (Sciv-ery)  or  Severy. 
Either  of  these  two  combinations  of  letters  would,  to 
an  Englishman,  convey  very  nearly,  and  with  about 
equal  effect,  the  name  as  it  would  be  pronounced  by  a 
Frenchman.  As  those  acquainted  with  the  French 
language  know,  the  letter  t  at  the  end  of  a  word  is  not 
sounded  as  it  is  in  English.  It  merely  gives  a  little 
shade  of  difference  to  the  sound  of  the  e  preceding  it. 
The  French  termination  et  would  be  as  nearly  as  pos 
sible  pronounced  as  eh  would  be  by  an  Englishman;  but 
a  purely  English  name  never  ends  with  such  a  com 
bination  as  eh.  For  these  reasons  the  name  came  to 
be  written  Severy  or  Scivery,  the  latter  on  the  church, 
the  former  on  the  town  records,  while  it  was  often  also 
spelt  Sevrit  and  Severit,  from  a  lingering  knowledge 
that  the  £,  although  silent,  really  belonged  there.  Once 
the  form  Severy  became  established,  town  historians 
and  registrars  everywhere  mistook  the  name  for  a  cor 
ruption  of  the  more  familiar  Savery,  and  thus  widened 
and  perpetuated  the  divergence  from  the  original, 
making  "confusion  worse  confounded,"  and  sad  work 
indeed  among  genealogists  and  searchers  of  titles.  At 


Hife  of    faH  £afoar  17 


Marblehead  and  Wenham  we  find  the  name  connected 
contemporaneously  with  the  Christian  names  Thomas, 
Andrew,  Peter,  James,  and  John;  and  soon  afterwards 
we  meet  at  Marblehead,  Clement,  Gregory,  and 
Philip,  redolent  of  the  Channel  Islands  and  France;  and 
the  more  Puritan  and  biblically  associated  names 
Jonathan,  David,  Solomon,  still  common  in  the  family, 
appeared  simultaneously  in  branches  widely  separated 
for  generations.  Among  the  soldiers  in  King  Philip's 
War  were  Edward  and  John  Severy,  of  Marblehead,  and 
others  of  the  name,  and  the  family  contributed  a  re 
markable  number  to  all  the  wars  in  which  the  colonies 
and  the  United  States  were  engaged.  Marblehead  is 
said  to  have  contained  six  hundred  widows  at  the  close 
of  the  Revolutionary  War,  and  five  hundred  of  her 
citizens  were  prisoners  of  war  in  England  at  the  close 
of  the  War  of  1812.  The  estate  of  Peter  Sevore,  or 
Sevoree,  who  died,  it  would  seem,  at  Marblehead,  was 
administered  by  his  brother  Thomas,  May  14,  1685, 
and  that  of  Andrew  by  his  wife  Mary,  May  21,  1715. 
I  think  the  same  Peter  was  of  Wenham,  in  1684,  for  I 
find  there  recorded:  "Mary,  daughter  to  Peter  and 
Mary  Severy,  born  16.1.  1684."  But  the  Mary 
Sevrit  whose  "intent  of  marrig"  to  Jonathan  Moulton, 
"both  of  Wenham,"  was  published  May  31,  1713,  and 
"certificate  given"  June  18,  was  probably  daughter  of 
the  first  John.  It  would  seem  likely  that  Andrew,  who 
by  wife  Mary  had  a  child  born  to  him  in  1683,  and 
Thomas,  who  by  wife  Elizabeth  had  apparently  five 
children  born  before  1699,  were,  with  Peter,  brothers 
of  the  first  John  of  Wenham.  The  early  settlers  of 
Marblehead  gave  great  concern  to  the  General  Court 
by  their  lack  of  devotion  to  the  church  and  its  rules, 


is  jftemorial  Bolume 

and  I  believe  organized  no  church  whatever  until  after 
those  of  Ipswich  and  Wenham  were  organized,  but  the 
town  had  Episcopal  missionaries,  from  a  very  early 
date. 

I. 

John  (I)  Sevrit,  Severit,  or  Severy  must  have  been 
born  between  Nov.  8,  1644,  and  the  same  date  in  1645, 
for,  according  to  Wenham  records,  "John  Severi  died 
Nov.  8,  1742,  in  the  ninety-eighth  year  of  his  age." 
"Goodwife  Severit"  had  died  March,  1737.  The 
earliest  mention  of  his  name  is  on  the  Probate  record 
of  Essex  County,  where  it  appears  that,  in  1680,  John 
Severy  charged  the  estate  of  John  Harris,  of  Marble- 
head,  for  "providing  his  coffin  and  digging  his  grave." 
According  to  the  new  "History  of  Essex  County," 
sub  cap.  Wenham,  he  removed  to  Wenham  in  1695, 
his  name  in  connection  with  his  settlement  there  being 
spelt  Severett.  Here  also,  as  at  Marblehead,  the 
records  show  that  he  was  employed  from  the  first  with 
the  last  rites  to  the  dead,  and  thus  is  more  clearly 
identified.  Besides  probably  others,  he  had  the  follow 
ing 

CHILDREN 

John,  Joseph,  Mary,  James. 

SECOND  GENERATION 

JOSEPH  (II)  SEVERIT  or  SEVERY  (John  I)  was  born 
May  4,  1690,  before  his  father's  removal  from  Marble- 
head  to  Wenham.  His  intent  of  marriage,  under  the 
name  "Joseph  Saverit,  of  Wenham,"  to  Mary  Crocker 
of  Topsfield,  was  recorded  July  13,  1712.  She  died 
March  8,  1712-13;  and  on  Sept.  13,  1713,  we  find  again 
an  "intent  of  marrig"  between  Joseph  Saverit,  of 


of    ton  £afcar  19 


Wenham,  and  Sarah  Stockwell,  of  Ipswich,  not 
4  'Joseph  Severy,  of  Ipswich,  and  Sarah  Stockwell,  of 
Rehoboth,"  as  Tracy,  doubtless  relying  on  tradition, 
gives  it  in  his  *  'History  of  Sutton."  In  Ipswich  he  was 
published  as  Joseph  "Seavery."  His  wife  is  said  to 
have  been  a  sister  to  the  five  brothers  Stockwell,  of 
Rehoboth,  who  removed  thence  to  Sutton,  Oxford 
County,  among  the  earliest  settlers.  Before  moving 
to  Sutton  he  lived  in  Ipswich  or  Rehoboth,  perhaps 
consecutively  in  both  places,  and  settled  in  Sutton, 
with  four  children  already  born  to  him,  about  1728. 
The  farm  he  first  owned  there  he  sold,  and  bought  one 
a  little  north  from  it,  which  remained  in  the  family  one 
hundred  and  forty  years  or  upwards.  His  descendants 
are  most  widely  scattered  all  over  the  Union,  and  the 
progressive  variations  in  the  spelling  of  their  names 
render  them  most  difficult  to  trace.  He  died  Nov.  14, 
1761,  aged,  according  to  the  family  record  from  which 
I  compute  the  day  of  his  birth,  71  years  6  months  10 
days;  and  his  widow,  April  4,  1770,  aged  81  years  5 
months  26  days. 

CHILDREN 

Joseph,  Sarah,  John,  Mary,  John,  Benjamin,  Jacob, 
Thomas. 

THIRD  GENERATION 

JOSEPH  SEVERY,  JR.  (Joseph  2,  John  i),  was  born 
June  26,  1714;  and  married  Susanna  Stockwell,  who 
died  Jan.  14,  1762,  in  her  fifty-third  year.  He  settled 
in  that  part  of  Sutton  which  is  now  Millbury,  and  died 
Jan.  14,  1800. 

CHILDREN 

Mary,  Susanna,  Hannah,  Hannah,  Joseph,  Eunice, 
David,  Jonathan. 


20  Memorial  Volume 

FOURTH  GENERATION 

JOSEPH  SEVERY  (Joseph  3,  Joseph  2,  John  i)  was 
born  Jan.  13,  1744,  probably  at  Sutton;  married 
Rebecca ,  and  had: 

CHILDREN 

Joseph  Emerson  5,  b.  March  n,  1767,  who  was  an 
only  son,  and  probably  only  child. 

FIFTH  GENERATION 

JOSEPH  EMERSON  SEVERY  (Joseph  4,  Joseph  3, 
Joseph  2,  John  i)  was  born  March  n,  1767;  married 
Miriam  Stone;  lived  in  Auburn,  and  died  in  1829;  his 
widow  in  1846,  in  the  eighty-fifth  year  of  her  age. 

CHILDREN 
I.  Stephen  6,  b.  Aug.  30,  1791. 

SIXTH  GENERATION 

STEPHEN  SAVARY  (Joseph  Emerson  5,  Joseph  4, 
Joseph  3,  Joseph  2,  John  i)  was  born  Aug.  30,  1791; 
and  married  (intentions  published  Oct.  5,  1816)  Daphne 
Hall,  who  was  born  June  23,  1800.  By  the  advice  of 
his  preceptor  in  the  Lancaster  Academy,  where  he  was 
educated,  he  was  led  to  change  the  spelling  of  the  name 
to  Savary.  He  died  July  29,  1868;  and  his  widow 
followed  him  July  30,  1883.  The  sketch  of  the  life, 
times,  and  character  of  this  lady  by  her  son  John  is  a 
most  interesting  paper,  and  deserves  perpetual  preserva 
tion  by  her  descendants.  She  was  of  the  "best  type" 
of  the  New  England  matron  of  a  past  generation,  be 
longing  to  '  'that  great  army  of  brave  and  silent  workers 
who  made  the  New  England  of  to-day." 


22 fflemoriat  Volume 

seventeen;  entered  Williams  College  1851,  graduated 
1855;  graduated  from  Harvard  Divinity  School,  and 
licensed  to  preach  as  a  Unitarian  minister  in  Autumn  of 
1860.  War  breaking  out  soon  after  his  ordination,  he 
joined  the  national  army  as  a  private  with  the  promise 
of  a  chaplaincy;  served  under  General  Banks  in  New 
Orleans  in  1862  and  1863,  and  was  connected  with  the 
Sanitary  Commission  at  the  close  of  the  war;  returning 
home,  engaged  for  a  time  in  the  work  of  the  ministry, 
but  at  length  abandoned  it,  and  has  since  been  em 
ployed  as  an  assistant  in  the  library  of  Congress.  Is 
a  writer  of  felicity  and  power  both  in  prose  and  poetry, 
author  of  a  memorial  ode  to  President  Garfield,  etc. 

FROM 

THE  HALLS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 

GENEALOGICAL  AND   BIOGRAPHICAL 
BY  REV.  DAVID  B.  HALL,  A.  M.,  OF  DUANESBURGH,  N.  Y. 

ANCESTRY  OF  DAPHNE  HALL,  MOTHER  OF  JOHN  SAVARY 

HALLS   OF  MEDFORD 

The  emigrant  ancestor  was 

JOHN  HALL  I,  son  of  Widow  Mary  Hall,  of  Cam 
bridge.  He  was  born  in  England,  1627;  d.  in  Medford, 
Mass.,  Oct.  18,  1701,  ae.  74  years;  m.  April  2,  1656, 
Elizabeth,  dau.  of  Percival  and  Ellen  Green,  of  Cam 
bridge.  John  Hall  took  the  oath  of  fidelity  in  Middle 
sex  Co.,  1652,  and  in  the  same  year  the  town  of  Cam 
bridge  apportioned  to  him  20  acres  of  church  land  in 
Billerica.  He  resided  in  Concord,  Mass.,  several  years 
previous  to  1667,  when  he  returned  to  Cambridge,  and 
in  1675  removed  to  Medford,  about  8  miles  from  Bos- 


fc  of  ffofru  £abatp 23 

ton,  where  he  purchased  a  farm  of  Caleb  Robert,  June 
27,  1675,  and  gave  a  mortgage  on  it  the  same  day  for 
£260,  and  which  he  paid  May  2,  1681. 

The  records  of  Medford  begin  in  1674,  but  very  little 
is  written  before  1677,  when  John  Hall  was  chosen  con 
stable  and  selectman,  which  at  that  time  were  the  most 
important  offices  of  the  town. 

Dea.  Thomas  Willis  and  John  Hall  were  chosen  select 
men,  March  12,  1690.  In  1699  John  Hall  made  his 
will,  dividing  his  large  landed  estate  between  his  sons, 
who  were  to  pay  his  daughter's  portion  in  money,  and 
his  widow  Elizabeth  had  rights  reserved  for  her  during 
her  life,  and  had  the  use  of  a  portion  of  the  house  and  cel 
lar;  Stephen  and  Thomas  had  the  house  and  land  near  it. 
The  house  was  situated  a  few  rods  east  of  the  railroad 
depot  in  West  Medford,  and  was  demolished  many 
years  ago,  and  the  old  cellar  filled  up  in  1876;  Daniel 
A.  Gleason,  who  married  a  descendant  of  John  Hall, 
owns  a  house  and  lot  in  Medford  near  where  the  old 
house  stood. 

In  the  old  burying-ground  in  Medford  is  a  thick 
slate  grave-stone  about  as  wide  as  it  is  high,  and  arched 
at  the  top;  in  the  arch  is  a  death's  head,  under  which 
stands  an  hour-glass,  flanked  by  two  winged  figures; 
at  one  of  the  upper  corners  is  written  *  'Memento  Mori," 
at  the  other  '  Tugit  hora,"  and  on  the  body  of  the  stone 
is  engraved  as  follows: 

'  'Here  lies  the  body  of  JOHN  HALL,  aged  74  years. 

Died  the  i8th  of  Oct.,  1701. 
The  memory  of  the  Just  is  blessed." 

By  the  side  of  this  stone  is  another  on  which  is  en 
graved:  "In  memory  of  Elizabeth,  wife  of  John  Hall, 
who  died  Feb.  4,  1713,  in  the  74th  year  of  her  age." 


24  Memorial  Volume 

And  on  the  other  side  of  the  first-mentioned  stone  is 
a  smaller  one:  "In  memory  of  William  Hall,  aged  19 
years,  who  died  Jan.  4,  1683." 

Children  of  John  and  Elizabeth  Hall  were:  Eliza 
beth,  .  .  .  John,  .  .  .  William,  .  .  .  Nathaniel,  .  .  . 
Mary,  .  .  .  Stephen,  .  .  .  Percival,  b.  in  Cam 
bridge,  Feb.  ii,  1672.  .  .  .  (Also  other  children  to 
the  number  of  eleven.) 

SECOND  GENERATION 

PERCIVAL  HALL  2,  John  i;  b.  in  Cambridge,  Feb.  n, 
1672;  d.  in  Sutton,  Mass.,  Dec.  25,  1752,  ae.  80  years; 
m.  in  Woburn,  Oct.  18,  1697,  Jane,  dau.  of  Thomas  and 
Grace  (Tay)  Willis,  b.  Oct.  1677,  d.  Oct.  28,  1757,  ae. 
80  years.  Percival  Hall  of  Medford  owned  the 
covenant  of  the  church  of  Cambridge  in  order  to  have 
his  children  baptized;  and  son  Percival  was  baptized, 
Nov.  20,  1698;  he  and  his  wife  were  admitted  to  full 
communion  Dec.  31,  1699;  he  was  one  of  the  founders 
of  the  church  of  Medford,  Feb.  n,  1713,  and  was 
chosen  deacon  in  place  of  his  father-in-law,  Thomas 
Willis,  who  resigned  on  account  of  old  age,  March  9, 
1720.  He  was  proprietor  of  Sutton  in  1720,  and  re 
moved  to  that  place  in  the  fall  of  1720,  or  in  the  follow 
ing  spring;  was  dismissed  from  the  church  of  Medford, 
Dec.  3,  1721,  and  with  his  wife  was  admitted  to  the 
church  of  Sutton  the  same  month,  and  not  long  after 
was  chosen  the  2d  deacon  of  that  church;  he  became  a 
very  prominent  and  efficient  man  in  both  town  and 
church  affairs.  He  appeared  to  be  the  chief  means  of 
the  settlement  of  his  kinsman,  Rev.  David  Hall,  from 
Yarmouth,  over  the  church  of  Sutton;  he  was  a  very 
large  landed  proprietor,  and  represented  the  town  in 


MRS.  ALICE  HALLFRAZIER 


of    ^n  £afcar  25 


General  Court  (see  History  of  Sutton).  His  grandson, 
Jonathan  Hall  of  Windsor,  Vt.,  said  that  "he  was  a 
short,  thick  man,  and  a  great  worker."  His  grave  is 
....  in  Sutton  Center,  but  there  is  no  grave-stone 
erected  his  to  memory  ....  His  children  were: 
Percival,  .  .  .  Jane,  .  .  .  Elizabeth,  .  .  .  Mary,  .  .  . 
Martha,  .  .  .  Stephen  .  .  .  (And  others  to  the  num 
ber  of  twelve.) 

THIRD  GENERATION 

STEPHEN  HALL  3  (Percival  2  John  i);  b.  in  Medford 
Apr.  2,  1709;  d.  in  Sutton,  Jan.  29,  1787,  ae.  78;  m., 
Apr.  17,  1745,  Sarah  Taft,  widow  of  Samuel  Read,  of 
Uxbridge,  and  before  that  the  widow  of  John  Brown, 
who  was  a  widower  when  he  married  her. 

Stephen  Hall  was  a  farmer,  and  probably  had  a  por 
tion  of  his  father's  homestead  in  Sutton,  and  built  the 
house  in  1752,  which  is  now  owned  by  John  Armsby. 
It  was  kept  in  the  family  for  four  generations;  he  was  a 
tall,  broad-shouldered  man,  and  served  as  lieutenant 
and  quartermaster  in  the  old  French  and  Indian  war 
from  1755  to  1760.  His  wife  was  received  from  the 
church  of  Uxbridge  by  the  church  of  Sutton,  Feb.  23, 
1746.  Children  were: 

I.  Stephen,  b.  Jan.  24,  1747;  bap.  Feb.  23,  1747  .  .  . 
(And  others  to  the  number  of  seven.) 

FOURTH  GENERATION 

STEPHEN  HALL  4  (Stephen  3,  Percival  2,  John  i),  b. 
in  Sutton  Jan.  24,  1747;  m.  Abigail  Spring,  of  Newton, 
Mass.;  he  was  a  farmer  and  resided  on  his  father's  farm 
in  Sutton.  Children  were: 

i.  Abigail,  b.  Dec.  7,  1770.  2.  Stephen,  b.  March 
4,  1773  .  .  .  (And  others  to  the  number  of  eight.) 


26  emorial  Boiume 


FIFTH  GENERATION 

STEPHEN  HALL  5  (Stephen  4,  Stephen  3,  Percival  2, 
John  i),  b.  in  Sutton,  March  4,  1773  ;  d.  1827;  m.,  Dec., 
1708,  Polly  Stone,  called  Molly,  dau.  of  Daniel  Stone, 
of  Sutton.  Children  were: 

I.  Kelsey,  b.  Apr.  27,  1799;  d.  of  yellow  fever  at  New 
Orleans,  in  1822  or  1823.  Daphne,  b.  June  25,  1800. 
3.  Therel  Luther,  b.  Aug.  29,  1801.  4.  Moody,  d. 
in  infancy.  5.  Olivet,  b.  Oct.  13,  1803;  d.  in  Boston 
in  1852.  6.  Merinda,  b.  Oct.  17,  1804.  Acosta,  b. 
May  6,  1806.  Pelthira,  b.  June  17,  1809.  Deolphus 
Stephen  Moody  Stone,  b.  June  22,  1811;  d.  Oct.  23, 
1811.  10.  Zera  Spring,  b.  July  27,  1813.  n.  Eltheda 
Gould,  b.  Feb.  13,  1815.  12.  Zera,  b.  1818;  d.  July, 
1832.  13.  Amanda  A.  Stone,  b.  July  16,  1820. 

(Daphne,  the  mother  of  John  Savary,  Acosta,  who 
m.  Albigence  Williams,  and  resided  in  Woonsocket; 
Pelthira,  who  m.  Elisha  Brown,  and  lived  in  Wales, 
Massachusetts;  Eltheda  G.,  who  m.  James  Fuller  of 
Southbridge,  Mass.,  and  resided  in  Hartford,  Conn.; 
and  Amanda  A.  S.,  who  m.  Cornelius  Putnam  and 
resided  in  Webster,  Mass.  These  five  sisters  of  Therel 
Luther  Hall,  who  resided  in  Sutton,  were  remarkable 
for  their  energy  and  ability.  They  had  a  warm 
affection  for  each  other,  which  increased  rather  than 
diminished  as  their  years  and  cares  increased,  and  their 
family  reunions,  often  held  at  their  brother's,  are  the 
happiest  and  merriest  recollections  of  their  nieces  and 
nephews  to  this  day.  Their  names  and  families  to 
gether  with  other  particulars  are  given  below.)  Note 
by  M.  H.  S. 


MRS.  CLOVER  SJBLEY  KAIKCHER 


of        tt  £afcar  27 


SIXTH  GENERATION 

DAPHNE  HALL  6  (Stephen  5,  Stephen  4,  Stephen  3, 
Percival  2,  John  i),  b.  in  Sutton,  June  25,  1800;  m. 
Stephen  Severy,  of  Auburn,  Mass.  Children  were: 
(See  Savary  records  for  the  first  five)  6  John,  b.  Nov. 
4,  1832;  graduated  at  Williams  College;  studied  theol 
ogy  at  Cambridge,  became  a  Unitarian  minister,  settled 
as  pastor  of  church  in  Newton  and  Hingham,  was  in 
the  U.  S.  service  during  the  war  for  the  Union,  and  was 
in  the  library  of  congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C.,  until 
Oct.,  1897. 

THEREL  LUTHER  6,  pedigree  as  before;  b.  Aug.  29, 
1801;  residence,  Sutton;  m.  Lucy  Thurston  Holman, 
probably  grand-daughter  of  David  and  Lucy  Thurston 
Holman,  of  Sutton,  son  of  Edward,  son  of  Solomon, 
who  came  from  Wales  to  Newbury,  Mass.,  about  1693, 
by  way  of  the  Bermuda  Islands.  Children  were: 

i.  Stephen,  b.  in  Sutton,  Dec.  10,  1824;  d.  Aug.  24, 

1828.  2.  Albert,  b.  in  Sutton,  Apr.  18,  1826;  d.  Sept. 

20,  1829.     3.  George  Washington,  b.  in  Sutton,  Sept. 

21,  1827.     4.  Stephen  Henry,   b.   in   Sutton,   Apr.   2, 

1829.  5.  Lydia   Ann,   b.    in   Sutton,    Feb.    13,    1831. 
6.  Albert  Franklin,  b.  in  Millbury,  Aug.  4,  1832.     7. 
d.  at  birth.     8.  Mary  Elizabeth,  b.  in  Auburn,  Dec. 
4,  1837.     Mary  Elizabeth,  b.  Dec.  4,  1837;  m.  Francis 
Stephen    Sibley,    son    of    Deacon    Stephen    Sibley    of 
Auburn,  Mass.,  Aug.  19,  1873.     Her  husband  died  Jan 
uary   8,    1883.     Children  were:     I.  Clover  Louise,   b. 
April  25,  1875;  m.  July  20,  1910,  to  Louis  A.  Karcher  of 
Boston.     2.  John  Ralph,   b.  Jan.    16,    1877;  m.  July 
14,   1909,  Mary  Caroline  Root   of   Boston.     9.  Lucy 


28 jmemoriat  Botume 

Jane,  b.  in  Auburn,  June  23,  1839.     10.  Luther  Free 
man,  b.  in  Worcester,  Jan.  23,  1843. 

MERINDA  HALL  6,  pedigree  as  before;  b.  in  Sutton, 
Oct.  17,  1804;  m.  Amasa  Hart,  of  Auburn.  Children 
were: 

I.  William,  was  a  soldier  in  the  war  for  the  Union, 
was  taken  prisoner  and  d.  in  Libby  prison.  2.  Martha. 
3.  Mary.  4.  Susan.  5.  Edwin.  NOTE. —  (Mary  and 
Susan  have  died  since  this  book  was  published. — 
M.  H.  S.) 

ACOSTA  HALL  6,  pedigree  as  before;  b.  May  6,  1806; 
m.  Albigence  Williams,  a  mechanic  of  Woonsocket  Falls, 
R.  I.  Children  were:  (Acosta  died  May  27,  1891; 
Albigence  d.  March  28,  1879.) 

I.  Abbie,  m.  Ezra  M.  Stockwell,  mechanic,  Woon 
socket.  2.  Lottie  (Charlotte),  m.  George  D.  W.  Dyer, 
mechanic,  of  Woonsocket.  (NOTE. —  Charlotte  d.  Aug. 
23,  1911. — M.  H.  S.)  3.  Henry  P.,  m.  Katie  E.  Pratt, 
of  Chelsea,  Mass.;  he  is  express  agent  on  the  Providence 
and  Worcester  R.  R.;  was  a  soldier  in  the  war  for  the 
Union,  in  the  5th  R.  I.  Vols.,  served  through  the  war, 
was  ist  lieutenant;  residence,  Woonsocket  Falls,  R.  I. 
(NOTE. — d.  in  1902. — M.  H.  S.)  Wife  died  Sept.  3, 1906. 

PELTHIRA  HALL  6,  pedigree  as  before;  b.  June  17, 
1809;  m.  Nov.  10,  1829,  Elisha  Brown,  a  farmer  of 
Wales,  Mass.  Children  were:  (NOTE. — Married,  2d, 
Elder  Baker,  retired  Methodist  preacher,  188?;  d. 
189?.— M.  H.  S.) 

I.  Charles  E.,  b.  Apr.   29,   1830;  d.  July   I,   1832. 

2.  William  H.,  b.  May  18,   1832;  d.  Sept.   12,   1832. 

3.  Eltheda  A.,  b.  June  22,  1833.     4.  Harriet  M.,  b. 
May  7,   1835.     5.     Charles  A.,  b.  Aug.   10,   1837.  6. 
Horatio  H.,  b.  May  30,  1839.     7.  Susan  M.,  b.  June 


MRS.  NELLIE  HALL  POPE 


of        K  £atoar  29 


26,  1843.  8.  William,  b.  Apr.  18,  1845,  d.  Aug.  23, 
1845.  9.  Emma  T.,  b.  May  12,  1846;  d.  March  n, 
1847.  10.  James  L.,  b.  Sept  18,  1848;  d.  July  21, 
1849.  ii.  Clara,  b.  Aug.  29,  1853;  m->  Oct.  28,  1873, 
William  Rhodes,  of  Wales,  Mass. 

ELTHEDA  G.  HALL  6,  pedigree  as  before;  b.  Feb.  13, 
1815;  m.,  May  24,  1833,  James  Fuller,  manufacturer, 
from  Southbridge,  Mass.;  residence,  Hartford,  Conn. 
Children  were: 

I.  Charles  J.,  b.  Feb.  8,  1834;  m.,  Jan.  I,  1860,  Mary 
E.  Whiton;  is  a  merchant.  2.  Lovice  Gay,  b.  July  31, 
1836;  d.  Feb.  6,  1837.  3.  Adelaide  E.,  b.  Sept.  21, 
1840;  d.  Apr.  27,  1842.  4.  Jerome  H.,  b.  Feb.  18, 
1843;  d.  Oct.  25,  1864.  (NOTE.  —  Charles  and  Jerome 
were  soldiers  in  the  war  for  the  Union,  and  Jerome 
starved  to  death  in  prison.  —  M.  H.  S.)  Ella  A.,  b. 
June  7,  1847;  m.  Mr.  Meyer,  190?. 

AMANDA  A.  S.  HALL  6,  pedigree  as  before;  b.  July 
16,  1820;  m.  Cornelius  Putnam,  of  Sutton,  blacksmith; 
residence  Webster,  Mass.;  had  one  child: 

i.  Banfield,  b.  May  10,  1843;  m.  1865,  Emmalaide 
Hall  of  Webster,  and  had: 

I.  Mildred  E.,  b.  July  20,  1869.  (NOTE.  —  M.,  1893, 
Walter  Ray  of  Woonsocket;  lives  in  Woonsocket,  R.  L— 
M.  H.  S.)  2.  Edith  Maud,  b.  May  13,  1873.  (NOTE  — 
M.,  1902,  Henry  Whitcomb  of  Worcester,  Mass.;  re 
sides  in  Spencer,  Mass.  —  M.  H.  S.) 


so  jftemorial  Volume 


FAMILES  OF  JOHN  SAVARY'S  BROTHERS  AND 

SISTERS 

NANCY  SEVERY  7,  .  .  .  ;  b.  in  Sutton,  June  16, 
1817;  m.  Smith  Baker,  manufacturer  of  woolen  goods, 
Douglas,  Mass.  Children  were: 

I.  Dau.,  d.  in  infancy.  2.  Francis.  3.  Henry,  m. 
Catharine  Creighton,  of  Maine;  was  a  soldier  in  the 
war  for  the  Union,  in  the  I5th  Regt.,  Mass.  Vols.;  was 
wounded  in  the  battle  of  Gettysburg  and  disabled 
for  service;  receives  a  pension.  4.  George  H.,  m. 
Ellen  Darling  of  Charlton,  Mass.,  and  had  i,  a  son, 
d.  at  the  age  of  one  year;  2.  A  dau.,  d.  in  n  days;  he 
served  in  the  war  for  the  Union  in  the  2d  Mass.  Cavalry. 
(NOTE.— George  d.  1906.— M.  H.  S.) 

LOUISA  SEVERY  7,  .  .  .  ;  b.  in  Sutton,  March  27, 
1820;  m.  George  W.  Darling  of  Rhode  Island.  Chil 
dren  were: 

I.  Jacob,  b.  1845.  2.  Eugene,  b.  1847;  m.  Ellen 
Knight,  of  Uxbridge;  railroad  engineer.  3.  Jerome,  b. 
1849;  m.  Fanny  Gilman  of  Worchester,  is  a  printer  (in 
Cambridge).  M.  H.  S.  Ruth  M.,  b.  1851;  m.  A.  W. 
Tufts.  (NOTE.— Ruth  d.  in  Worcester,  187?— M.H.  S.) 

MARION  S.  SEVERY  7,  .  .  .  ;  b.  April  13,  1823;  d. 
Jan.  17,  1839;  m.  Sanford  A.  Inman,  of  Oxford,  Mass.; 
farmer,  formerly  of  Rhode  Island.  Children  were: 

i.  Henry  A.,  b.  Oct.  28,  1844;  m.,  Dec.  I,  1867, 
Marion  Waters  of  Sutton;  bookkeeper  of  Boston. 
(Dead.— M.  H.  S.)  2.  Frederic  A.,  b.  May  18,  1846, 
expressman.  3.  Caroline  V.,  b.  Dec.  2,  1848;  m.,  Dec. 
2,  1866,  Louis  T.  Carpenter,  farmer,  and  had,  I,  Maria, 
b.  Nov.  28,  1867;  2,  Sophia,  b.  March  19,  1869;  3,  Carrie 


aiife  of  Sfrfrn  £atotp 31 

Maud,  b.  Oct.  21,  1873.  4.  Edward  H.,  b.  Oct.  10, 1850; 
d.  May  3,  1852.  5.  Nelson  S.,  b.  Dec.  16,  1856. 
(NOTE. —  This  is  where  the  one  called  Mabel,  mother  of 
little  Sophia  Maud  Cable,  should  appear. — M.  H.  S.) 

STEPHEN  AUGUSTUS  SEVERY  7,  .  .  .  ;  b.  Sept.  12, 
1825;  m.  Georgie  Case  of  Millbury.  Children  were: 

I.  A  dau./b.  1867;  d.  in  infancy.  2.  Wendell  A., 
b.  1869. 


FAMILIES   OF  THE   CHILDREN   OF  THEREL 

LUTHER  HALL,  BROTHER  OF  DAPHNE 

HALL,   THE  MOTHER  OF 

JOHN   SAVARY 

GEORGE  W.  HALL  7,  .  .  .  ;  b.  in  Sutton,  Sept.  21, 
1827;  m.  Susan  E.  Mayers,  b.  in  Dresden,  Maine,  Aug. 
30,  1842;  farmer,  of  Millbury,  Mass.  Children  were: 

Eugene  S.  Hall,  born  July  23,  1869.  Married,  188-. 
Died  Jan.  4,  1904. 

Bessie  M.  Hall,  b.  Mar.  29,  1870;  m.  Chas.  A.  Shurn, 
Dec.  6,  1887. 

Arthur  A.  Hall,  b.  Oct.  9,  1877;  m->  Nov.  6,  1903, 
Hannah  Geekie. 

H.  Mildred  Hall,  b.  May  29,  1878;  m.,  May  28,  1896, 
Everett  W.  Sweet. 

1.  Alice  Thurston,  b.  in  Millbury,  Dec.  23,   1866. 
(NOTE. —  M.  William  F.  Frazier.     Children  were:    i. 
George  W.,  b.  June  20,  1889;  2.  Mary,  b.  Nov.  13,  1892; 
3.  Helena,  b.  Feb.  2,  1895;  4.  William,  b.  Apr.  10,  1897, 
accidentally  drowned,  July  8,   1901;   5.  Lawrence,  b. 
May  16,  1899;  6.  Blanche,  b.  Jan.  6,  1903. 

2.  Silas   Eugene,    b.    in   Worcester,   July   22,    1868. 
(NOTE.—  M.  and  d.) 


32 


3.  Bessie  Maud,  b.  in  Millbury,  March  29,   1870. 
(NOTE.  —  M.  Charles  A.  Shurn,  of  Millbury,  188-  and 
had  one  son,  Charles,  who  died  190-  (7  or  8). 

4.  Arthur,  b.  --  ;  m.  -  —  . 

5.  Mildred,  b.  -    —  ;  m.  Everett  Sweet. 

6.  Lena  M.,  b.  -    —  ;  m.  -       -  Burt;     m.  2d,  - 
Buxton.     Resides  in  Newcastle,  Wyoming. 

STEPHEN  HENRY  HALL,  .  .  .  ;  b.  Apr.  2,  1829;  m., 
1850,  Alice  Eliza  Haven,  of  Leicester,  Mass.;  residence, 
Brighton,  Mass.;  served  through  the  war  for  the  Union 
as  private  in  1st  Mass,  battery,  light  artillery.  No 
children.  (NOTE.  —  Adopted  two,  a  boy  and  a  girl, 
and  brought  them  up  as  his  own.  —  M.  H.  S.)  Is  fore 
man  in  the  freight  department  of  the  Boston  &  Albany 
Railroad.  (NOTE.  —  He  d.  in  Spencer,  Mass.,  July, 
1905  (?). 

LYDIA  ANN  HALL,  .  .  .  ;  b.  Feb.  13,  1831;  d.  in 
Havana,  N.  Y.,  June  n,  1854;  m.,  Oct.  22,  1848,  James 
M.  Johnson;  now  resides  in  Providence,  R.  I.  Children 
were: 

i.  Flora  A.,  b.  in  Havana,  N.  Y.;  d.  May  16,  1850. 
2.  Mary  F.,  b.  Aug.  13,  1852.  (NOTE.  —  M.  Joseph 
Bryant,  18  —  ,  and  had  3  children,  who  lived  to  ma 
turity:  Bertha,  Irving,  and  Clifton.  They  all  reside 
in  Los  Angeles,  Cal.  The  elder  son,  Irving,  and  the 
daughter  are  married. 

ALBERT  F.  HALL  7,  pedigree  as  above;  b.  in  Mill- 
bury,  Aug.  4,  1832;  d.  Aug.  14,  1865;  m.  Catharine 
Maria  Bulchrine,  of  Boston.  He  served  as  a  soldier 
in  the  war  for  the  Union,  in  15th  Regt.  Mass.  Vols., 
afterwards  in  gunboat  service  in  New  Orleans  and 
Fort  Donaldson,  Fort  Henry,  Island  No.  10,  Vicks- 
burg,  etc.,  and  was  honorably  discharged  on  account 


MRS.  ACOSTA  HALL  WILLIAMS 


MRS.  CHARLOTTE  WILLIAMS  DYER 


MRS.  ABBIE  WILLIAMS  STOCKWEL 


%ife  of     on  £atoar  33 


of  being  sick;  he  re-enlisted  in  the  1st  Reg.  Mass. 
Light  Battery  and  died  in  the  service  at  City  Point, 
Va.,  Aug.  14,  1865.  Children  were: 

i.  Anna  Viola,  d.  in  infancy.  Nellie  Viola,  b.  July 
5,  1853;  m.  Irvine  Clarendon  Pope,  now  physician  in 
Holliston,  Mass.,  and  had  sons  Ernest  Albert  and 
Sydney  Lemuel.  Ernest  died,  1905.  Georgiana  Frances, 
b.  1855;  m.  Harry  Rogers  and  had  daughters,  Sarah 
Maria  and  Lucilla.  Family  resides  in  Milford,  Mass. 

MARY  ELIZABETH  HALL  7,  .  .  .  ;  b.  in  Auburn, 
Mass.,  Dec.  4,  1837;  m.,  at  Boston,  Aug.  9,  1873, 
Francis  S.  Sibley;  of  Millbury,  a  dealer  in  spices,  etc. 
(He  d.  in  188-.) 

Children  were: 

1.  Clover  Louise,  b.  -     —  ;  m.,  July  20,  1910,  Louis 
A.  Karcher  of  Boston. 

2.  John  Ralph,  b.  —    —  ;  m.,  July,  1909,  Mary  Caroline 
Root  of  Boston. 

LUCY  JANE  HALL  7,  .  .  .  ;  b.  in  Auburn,  June  23, 
1839;  m.,  May  19,  1863,  Henry  L.  Shumway  of  Oxford, 
local  editor  of  the  Worcester  Gazette.  (He  d.  April 
17,  1908.)  Children  were: 

Mary  Eliza,  b.  April  17,  1864;  d.  Aug.  14,  1864.  2. 
Everett  Warner,  b.  March  29,  1867;  m.,  June  28,  1898, 
Mrs.  Affia  A.  Caldwell  of  Rutland,  Vermont;  who  d. 
Oct.  31,  1898;  m.  2d,  Elizabeth  Maxwell  of  Boston, 
Aug.  4,  1908,  and  had  Loriston,  b.  Aug.  15,  1909,  and 
Everett  Warner,  Jr.,  b.  Oct.  i,  1911.  3.  Marion  Hoi- 
man,  b.  Aug.  27,  1869. 

LUTHER  FREEMAN  HALL,  .  .  .  ';  b.  in  Worcester, 
Jan.  23,  1843;  m.,  1866,  Elizabeth  McLane;  was  a 
soldier  in  the  war  for  the  Union,  in  the  2d  Reg.  Mass. 
Vols.;  was  wounded  in  the  battle  of  Cedar  Mountain, 


34  lemotial  Bolume 


and  again  at  Winchester,  on  account  of  which  he  was 
honorably  discharged;  he  re-enlisted  in  the  2d  Mass, 
heavy  artillery,  and  served  to  the  close  of  the  war. 
Children  were: 

Willie  Chester,  b.  Feb.  22,  1867;  adopted  by  Henry 
S.  Hall  of  Brighton.  2.  D.  in  infancy. 

CHILDREN  OF  PELTHIRA  BROWN,  SISTER  OF 
DAPHNE,  JOHN   SAVARY'S  MOTHER 

ELTHEDA  A.  BROWN  7  (Elisha  Brown)  .  .  .  ;  b. 
June  22,  1833;  m.,  July  4,  1852,  Edwin  M.  Hatch. 
Children  were: 

i.  Mary  E.,  b.  Nov.  10,  1858;  m.,  March  i,  1872, 
Frank  Ware,  of  Wales,  Mass.  2.  Ida  A.,  b.  Aug.  19, 
1856.  3.  Eva  E.,  b.  Aug.  19,  1856.  George  S.,  d. 
Nov.  7,  1862. 

HARRIET  M.  BROWN  7,  .  .  ;  b.  May  7,  1835;  m- 
John  G.  Shaw,  of  Rhode  Island.  Children  were: 

i.  Emma  F.,  b.  Nov.  25,  1853,  Woonsocket,  R.  I.; 
d.  Aug.  i,  1858.  2.  John  H.,  b.  Nov.  13,  1857,  Woon 
socket.  3.  Herbert  C.,  b.  at  North  Ware,  N.  H., 
No.  19,  1862;  d.  Feb.  6,  1865.  4.  Nettie  D.,  b.  Nov. 
7,  1864.  5.  Wallace,  b.  Nov.  27,  1865,  Wales,  Mass. 

CHARLES  AUSTIN  BROWN  7,  .  .  .  ;  b.  Aug.  10,  1837, 
Ironstone,  Mass.;  m.,  Jan.  2,  1859,  Elizabeth  Reynolds, 
b.  Jan.  18,  1840.  Children  were: 

i.  Charles  Harris,  b.  Aug.  24,  1861,  at  Providence, 
R.  I.  2.  Warren  Austin,  b.  May  15,  1869;  d.  Oct.  9, 
1869.  Mr.  Brown  was  a  soldier  in  the  war  for  the 
Union,  in  Battery  E,  ist  R.  I.  artillery;  was  soon  pro 
moted  from  a  private,  by  degrees,  to  the  office  of  ist 
lieutenant,  and  engaged  in  nearly  all  the  battles  of  the 


"HRS.PELTHYRA  HALL  BROWN  BAK** 
AND  HUSBAND 


aiife  of  Sfrftn  £abatp 35 

Army  of  the  Potomac  up  to  the  time  of  his  capture  in 
the  battle  of  the  Wilderness;  he  was  then  taken  to  Rich 
mond;  then  to  Dansville;  then  to  Macon,  Ga.,  when  he 
effected  his  escape;  but  after  traveling  twelve  days, 
was  retaken  and  traveled  back  again  and  placed  in  a 
dungeon  and  kept  there  for  six  weeks,  then  removed 
to  Charleston,  S.  C.;  while  on  the  road  eighty  of  our 
men,  prisoners,  jumped  from  the  cars  and  fled,  but  were 
all  captured  before  night  of  the  next  day,  and  taken  to 
Charleston,  and  placed  under  the  fire  of  our  own  guns, 
which  were  then  shelling  the  city,  and  kept  there  until 
about  the  i/|.th  of  October;  they  were  then  removed  to 
Columbus,  S.  C.,  and  placed  in  an  open  field,  without 
shelter,  and  almost  without  food,  and  kept  there  until 
about  the  4th  of  November,  when,  says  Mr.  Brown, 
four  of  us  made  our  escape,  and  traveled  to  our  lines 
at  Knoxville,  Tenn.,  500  miles,  in  30  days;  we  lived 
mostly  on  parched  corn,  not  daring  to  see  anybody. 
On  our  arrival  we  were  in  a  bad  condition,  one  of  us 
having  frozen  both  of  his  feet,  and  had  not  eaten 
anything  except  snow  for  100  hours.  Lieut.  Brown 
was  in  command  of  a  cannon  at  the  battle  of  Gettys 
burg,  the  same  which  was  made  over  to  the  State  of 
Rhode  Island,  and  received  with  appropriate  ceremony 
at  Providence,  in  May,  1874.  Lieut.  Brown  resides 
in  Vandewater  street,  and  does  business  at  No.  189 
Church  St.,  Providence,  R.  I. 

HORATIO  H.  BROWN  7,  .  .  .  ;  b.  May  20,  1839;  m. 
ist  Annie  Chase,  of  North  Ware,  N.  H.;  m.  2d,  Sarah 
Finger,  and  had:  I.  Elmer.  2.  Alvira. 

SUSAN  M.  BROWN,  .  .  .  ;  b.  June  26,  1843;  m. 
George  S.  Willard,  of  North  Ware,  N.  H.;  had  one  child, 
Eva,  b.  Sept.  9,  1862. 


PART   II 

0oems  of  3Jolw 


A  FEW  THOUGHTS  ABOUT  TRANSLATIONS 

Mr.  Emerson  is  reported  to  have  said  that  he  would 
never  read  an  ancient  author  in  the  original  provided 
a  good  translation  was  accessible;  that  he  would  as 
soon  think  of  swimming  Charles  River  to  get  to  Boston, 
instead  of  using  the  bridge.  If  the  things  of  an  author 
were  alone  in  question,  the  comparison  would  be  more 
just.  Translation  is  a  short  cut  to  the  matter,  and 
the  reader  who  is  intent  only  on  making  merchandise 
of  his  author  can  afford  to  neglect  the  wrappages  of 
style  and  diction.  It  is  merely  destroying  the  labels, 
and  transferring  the  contents  from  one  shaped  vessel 
to  another.  And  when,  as  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  the 
reader  is  but  imperfectly  acquainted  with  the  language 
of  his  author  and  quite  insensible  to  the  force  of  idioms, 
to  grammatical  niceties  of  expression,  and  the  delicate 
shades  and  nuances  of  meaning  in  the  original,  he  is, 
perhaps,  justified  in  refusing  the  laborious  office  of 
translating  for  himself.  Very  few  will  accept  the 
trouble,  when  a  good  translation  lies  ready  made  to 
hand.  Yet  it  may  be  said  without  fear  of  contradiction 
that  the  masterpieces  of  literature,  whether  belonging 
to  antiquity  or  not,  can  never  be  understood  and  appre 
ciated  at  their  true  value,  except  they  be  read  in  the 
original.  There  is  a  strain  of  honor  and  of  greatness 
running  through  the  classic  authors  of  antiquity  which 

37 


38  Jftemorial 


only  to  have  caught  the  "air"  of  makes  the  date  and 
the  occasion  rememberable  forever.  One  can  never 
be  quite  the  same  man  as  before  after  reading  a  tragedy 
of  Sophocles,  a  dialogue  of  Plato,  or  an  ode  of  Horace 
in  the  original.  He  has  imbibed  a  tincture  of  Greek 
and  Roman  letters,  and  the  very  mind  and  spirit  of 
his  author  has  to  some  extent  entered  into  him.  It 
is  felt  by  every  reader  of  taste  and  intelligence  that 
there  is  something  about  a  classic  which  no  translation, 
however  excellent,  can  possibly  convey.  It  is  not 
merely  the  words  separately,  or  the  thoughts  of  the 
original.  But  it  is  that  beautiful  and  perfect  incarna 
tion  of  original  thought  in  language  which  has  been 
achieved  once  and  forever.  To  the  reverent  scholar, 
the  reading  of  the  original  is  an  act  of  worship;  and  to 
lay  hands  on  it  for  the  rude  purpose  of  translation  is 
akin  to  blasphemy.  It  is  deliberately  to  mar  the 
image  of  the  maker  and  to  deface  its  original  beauty. 
It  is  to  divide  the  joints  from  the  marrow,  and  to  force 
the  iron  into  the  soul  of  your  author.  The  violent 
separation  of  soul  from  body  in  a  living  man  is  not  a 
greater  injury  to  him  than  translation  often  is  to  a 
classic  author.  The  definition  of  a  good  book  as 
Milton  gives  it,  viz.,  "the  life-blood  of  a  choice  spirit 
treasured  up  on  purpose  to  a  life  beyond  life,"  suggests 
how  easy  it  is  to  spill  the  life-blood  of  an  author  and  to 
let  the  spirit  and  essence  of  a  book  evaporate  in  trans 
lation.  What  remains  is  but  a  caput  mortuum.  If 
there  is  "a  divinity  which  doth  hedge  a  king,"  there 
is  also  a  divinity  that  doth  hedge  a  writer  who  has 
become  a  classic  and  recognized  as  a  king  of  thought. 
To  understand  his  majesty,  one  must  approach  him 
where  he  sits  upon  the  throne  of  his  intellectual  pre- 


of     tin  £atoar  39 


eminence,  and  converse  not  through  an  interpreter 
but  in  the  accents  which  are  native  to  him.  "I  have 
heard,"  says  Lowell,  speaking  of  Homer,  "the  blind 
old  man  recite  his  own  rhapsodies."  This  as  an 
apology  for  not  reading  the  many,  and  some  excellent 
translations  of  Homer  in  our  language.  Speaking 
of  the  modern  English  hexameter  as  compared  with 
the  Greek,  he  says: 

"For  as  the  roar  of  the  sea  to  the  coo  of  a  pigeon  is 
Your  modern  hexameter  to  old  Melisegenes." 

What  was  said  about  Fox's  sentences  is  perhaps  truer 
of  Homer's  lines,  that  every  one  of  them  "comes  rolling 
like  a  wave  of  the  Atlantic  three  thousand  miles  long." 
This  vast  and  rolling  music  of  the  old  bard  has  not 
room  to  display  itself,  and  cannot  be  heard  in  any 
language  but  the  Greek.  When  Person  was  asked 
his  opinion  of  Pope's  Homer,  he  observed,  "A  very 
pretty  poem,  Mr.  Pope,  but  it  is  not  Homer." 


40  ;jftcmorial 


TO  SOPHIE  MAUD 
(HER  GRANDPA'S  PET  AND  TORMENT) 

The  psyche  knot!     I  should  expect 

Pure  soul  and  lofty  intellect 

From  curled  hair  all  brushed  back  before 

The  temples  of  a  girl  which  bore 

The  stamp  of  Nature — self-respect. 

A  broad  and  beauteous  forehead  decked 

With  grace  is  like  a  fair  prospect. 

Diana  and  her  nymphs  all  wore 

The  psyche  knot. 
A  mind  imbued  with  classic  love, 
My  Vassar  girl,  will  not  neglect 
To  study  still  in  retrospect 
The  laws  of  harmony  which  decore 
The  beauty-loving  Greek  of  yore— 

The  psyche  knot. 

JOHN  SAVARY. 

WASHINGTON,  D.  C.,  May  5,  1907. 


of        n  £afcar  41 


A  ROSE 

What  makes  the  beauty  of  this  flower  which  blows? 
Not  nourishing  earth,  nor  air,  nor  heaven's  blue, 
Nor  sun,  nor  soil,  nor  the  translucent  dew; 

But  that  which  held  in  combination  grows 

Whole  in  each  part,  and  perfect  at  the  close. 
Chemist  nor  botanist  no  more  than  you 
Can  see  that  pure  necessity  wherethrough 

Beauty  is  born  —  a  rose  within  the  rose. 

Not  by  divesting  her  can  you  lay  bare 
The  soul  of  beauty  such  as  therein  shows. 
Not  in  the  spirit  of  a  poor  pick-flaw, 

Nor  of  the  mean  and  mocking  fiends  that  dare 
To  number  every  separate  leaf  that  grows 
A  separate  fault,  if  not  composed  by  law. 

DECEMBER 

The  month  of  Capricornus  has  begun; 

How  the  blue  air  of  winter  keen  and  bright 
Sets  off  the  prospect  of  the  pine-clad  height, 

The  barren,  leafless  ridge  of  woodland  dun; 

And  yonder  crow  a  black  mote  in  the  sun 
Which  sparkles  with  a  frosty  kindly  light; 
The  earth  is  frozen  like  an  apple  quite, 

And  ice-bound  brooks  in  sluggish  slowness  run. 

Girls  rosy-cheeked  now  dream  of  love  and  skates; 
The  school  is  drowsy  in  the  afternoon, 
The  trees  stand  silent  in  the  after-glow; 

Now  run,  my  boy,  and  dare  your  eager  mates 
To  tie  on  wings  beneath  the  winter  moon, 
And  beat  them  flying  over  ice  and  snow! 


42  lemotial  Volume 


RAIN  AND   ROSES 

Ruby  and  sapphire,  all  the  orient  glows, 
Which  late  the  ash  of  roses  was  in  hue; 
Health  to  the  world,  and  glory  of  the  dew 

Mingled  with  fire  that  in  the  full-blown  rose 

Burns  like  a  censer,  while  the  sweetness  grows 
Of  odors  after  rain,  or  filtered  through 
Fresh-smelling  leaves  when  morn  on  earth  is  new, 

And  rain-drops  glitter  on  the  green  hedge-rows. 

Rare  virtues  have  bruised  herbs  —  not  vain  the  blast 
That  shatters  e'en  the  fondest  hopes  that  bloom, 
And  fills  with  heavy  tears  the  brightest  eyes. 

For  when  the  bitterness  of  death  is  past, 

The  soul  perceives  from  black  affliction's  gloom, 
An  issuing  glory  that  relumes  the  skies. 

BUYING  A  PAIR  OF  OXEN 

Dad  took  me  with  him  when  he  went 

To  buy  the  oxen;  many  a  mile 

We  rode  together,  all  the  while 
Stopping  at  barn-yards,  as  he  meant 
To  go  no  farther;  but  the  event 

Took  us  on  long  ways;  fear  of  guile, 

And  losing  of  his  little  pile 
Made  him  on  caution  mainly  bent. 
At  last  he  found  the  pair  he  sought; 

He  made  his  choice  and  it  was  best; 

Great,  handsome  four-year-olds  were  they. 
The  yoke  was  from  the  wagon  brought; 

I  drove  them  home,  and  then  I  guessed 

What  I  was  wanted  for  that  day. 


of    ton  £atoar  43 


MORNING  HOURS  TO  THE  MUSE 

Give  to  the  Muse  the  morning  hour! 

The  lights  of  eve 
Suit  best  with  Beauty's  artificial  bower, 

Drest  to  deceive. 
The  world's  first  splendors  —  the  auroral  hues  - 

The  fresh,  fair  time; 
Give  to  the  chaste  and  heavenly-minded  Muse, 

Day's  golden  prime! 

THE  TALKING  VIOLIN 

Thin  as  the  small  gnat's  song  in  summer  air, 

Some  faint  far  notes  were  heard,  as  half  in  doubt; 
Then  winding  in,  the  music  went  about 

Weaving  a  close  and  supersubtle  snare 

To  take  the  heart  of  melody  laid  bare. 

Now  wake  the  strings!  new  ardors  rise  about 
Like  little  flames  that  sparkle  and  go  out. 

And  love's  cold  ashes  strew  thy  hearth,  despair! 

Some  finer  frenzy,  now,  has  touched  the  brain: 

O  burning  tears!  O  love!  O  lamentation! 

Exquisite  bliss  —  and  more  exquisite  pain  — 
Anguish  and  agony  of  supplication: 

O,  let  that  sobbing  cease!  or  let  it  rain 

Fast-falling  drops  —  the  balm  of  consolation. 


44  Memorial  Volume 


A  CORNER  IN  WHEAT 

Our  world  depends  for  daily  bread 

Upon  the  shooting  of  a  seed. 
Always  and  everywhere  'tis  said 
Our  world  depends  for  daily  bread 

On  meeting  this  great  human  need. 
Who  corners  wheat  then  corners  bread : 

And  lo,  the  crime  of  human  greed! 

Upon  the  shooting  of  a  seed 
Our  world  depends  for  daily  bread. 

On  distribution  of  the  seed : 

Who  grabs  it  all  to  get  ahead 
Is  the  villain  of  the  basest  breed; 
On  distribution  of  the  seed 

The  poor  depend  for  being  fed. 
The  penny  loaf  at  sorest  need 

Snatcht  from  their  mouths  with  every  red 
Curse  of  mankind  doth  curses  breed. 

Lawgivers,  statesmen,  now  pay  heed! 

The  voice  of  conscience  is  not  dead. 
Let  every  man  that  runs  now  read. 
Lawgivers,  statesmen,  now  pay  heed! 

Here  Law  and  Old  Religion  wed. 
And  with  the  Public  Press  agreed, 
Lawgivers,  statesmen,  now  take  heed! 

Roll  all  your  thunders  on  the  head 
Of  monstrous  and  inhuman  greed. 


of 


DRIVING  THE   COWS  TO  PASTURE 

How  fresh  and  fair,  the  month  of  June, 

Ere  the  nightfall  come  to  pass! 
Through  the  golden  glow  of  late  afternoon 

Lies  the  valley  of  green  grass ! 
And  the  slumbering  leaves,  in  a  cloudy  mass 

Beneath  the  first  few  visible  stars, 
Hang  just  as  they  used  to  hang  aboon, 

When  I  let  down  the  clattering  bars, 
And  the  cows  came  home  in  the  gloaming. 

In  summer  dawns,  how  deep  and  cool 

The  shadows  lay  on  earth,  as  higher 
Through  the  dark  umbrage  round  the  pool 

Rose  reddening  one  great  wheel  of  fire! 

The  wandering  herd  in  its  desire 
Followed  the  leader,  strung  along 

To  pasture;  till  the  boy  from  school 
Returning,  whistled  some  old  song, 
And  the  cows  came  home  in  the  gloaming. 

What  fire  of  youth  and  hope  then  glowed 

In  Nature's  heart  and  his,  imprisoned! 
As  he  drove  the  cows  along  the  road, 

How  the  dews  on  the  emerald  pasture  glistened! 

How  the  river  rolled,  and  the  tall  wood  listened 
Where  standing  up  against  the  blue, 

It  made  the  heaven  of  man's  abode 
When  the  angels  dwelt  with  me  and  you, 

And  the  cows  came  home  in  the  gloaming! 


46  jftemorial  Bolume 

The  old  brown  house  below  the  hill 
Now  molders  like  the  dead,  asleep; 

And  the  sobbing  song  of  the  whippoorwill, 
At  twilight  perched  on  the  rude  well-sweep, 
Doth  scarce  disturb  the  silence  deep. 

And  the  boy  is  gone  who  used  to  loaf 
At  the  pasture  bars  there  standing  still, 

While  he  kept  calling,  "kof!  kof!  kof!" 

And  the  cows  came  home  in  the  gloaming. 


THE  MIDNIGHT   SUN 

Far  to  the  North,  where  rugged  nature  sleeping 

Bides  in  the  fabled,  old  Kimmerian  night, 
There  is  a  land  of  summer,  also,  keeping 

For  some  brief  space  the  burning  solar  light. 

Land  of  the  Midnight  Sun!  obscurely  bright 
Where  on  the  edge  of  frost  perpetual  creeping, 

The  flowers  yet  bloom,  the  birds  give  song  and  flight: 
Over  the  sea-mark  there  one  sees  just  peeping 

A  hull  that  bars  the  dull  red  orb  in  sight. 
How  like  a  dead  sea  soul  that  spectral  sheet, 

Lonely  as  life-in-death,  and  notwithstanding, 
If  there  be  one  in  all  the  world  whose  feet 

Have  touched  on  love  and  death,  that  sea  offstanding 

His  be  the  solemn  thought  and  voice  commanding: 
Now,  at  the  verge  —  farewell,  forever,  sweet! 


ffioemg  of  S^&H  £abarp 47 

THE   LIBRARY  OF  CONGRESS 

Here  are  the  buried  souls  of  men  in  books. 

Thicker  than  leaves  in  Vallombrosa,  sure; 

They  lie  in  covert  whiles  they  may  endure 
To  live  in  alcoves  lodged,  and  crannied  nooks. 
And  some  are  still  the  same  notorious  crooks 

Their  authors  were.     But  leave  the  common  sewer 

And  cesspool  always  of  Bad  Literature, 
And  follow  up  the  Parnassian  brooks. 
Like  an  army  a  great  library  looks! 

Long  rows  of  books  like  infantry  in  line, 
But  overcrowded  in  the  ranks  are  rammed; 

Old  Immortalities  that  bravely  shine 
Are  jostled  oft  by  parvenus,  and  jammed; 

Like  that  tea-party  --  Wordsworth  —  was  it  thine? 
All  sitting  silent,  and  moreover,  damned! 

ADORATION 

"J'ai  responde  a  votre  touche." 

As  one  might  seize  a  lyre,  across  it  sweeping 

With  rash  precipitate  hand  that  has  no  care, 
Imperiously  upon  the  strained  chords  heaping 

A  mightier  melody  than  these  can  bear; 
So  Love  my  heart  has  taken  to  his  keeping, 

And  smitten  with  great  strokes  that  scorn  to  spare; 
Till  I  am  dumb  for  wonder  of  my  weeping, 

And  not  a  gleam  of  hope  in  heaven  is  there. 

O  sweet  and  cold,  but  not  more  cold  than  sweet, 
As  death  itself  is  to  one  weary  wending; 


48  Memorial 


The  journey's  end  rewards  the  resting  feet, 

The  stormiest  day  may  have  a  peaceful  ending. 

Hail  and  farewell!  the  sun  of  life  descending, 
With  his  last  smile  to  triumph  turns  defeat. 


THE  NOTE  OF  AUTUMN 

Walking  towards  sundown,  I  perceived  a  cold 
Air-belt  that  stretched  o'er  tropic  ways  of  light, 

Tells  me  that  summer  is  already  old, 
As  day  is  verging  to  the  fall  of  night. 

As  wandering  slowly  on  I  still  vade, 

That  lurking,  strange,  premonitory  chill, 

Which  in  the  sunshine  feels  the  ghostly  shade  — 
The  spirit  of  Autumn  walks  here  at  will 

Ah,  yes,  I  hear  distinctively  her  note, 

No  other  like  it  on  the  round,  green  earth; 

My  heart  long  since  hath  got  the  song  by  rote, 
The  August  cricket's  sitting  on  the  hearth! 


CALAMITY 

I,  in  my  chamber  at  the  dead  of  night, 

Waylaid  by  something  was,  approaching  near; 
I  lay  quite  still  in  drench  of  mortal  fear, 

Or,  if  I  half  rose,  shivering  with  affright, 

Nothing  was  there  to  cross  or  blast  my  sight. 
Anon  I  heard  a  dismal  wind  and  drear 
Sigh  from  the  forest  by  a  lonesome  mere, 

And  on  the  strand  the  water-dragons  fight. 


of    ^I)n  £afcar  49 


They,  on  the  slope,  like  rasping  seas  that  tore, 
Drag  their  raised  wings  and  sinking  feet  of  lead; 

They  shake  my  building  on  the  sandy  shore, 
And  surge  against  me  lying  drowned  and  dead: 

Then  swoop  the  dragons  with  a  falling  roar, 
And  pile  the  world  of  waters  overhead. 


THE   "OLD   FARMER'S  ALMANAC" 

This  calendar  of  days  of  date  far  back, 

Dingy  and  dog-eared,  is  to  me  worth  more 
Than  many  novels,  as  a  living  store 

And  treasure-house  of  dreams  which  do  not  lack 

Life  and  poetry,  and  of  home-truths,  a  smack. 
I  learn  from  this  what  Hesiod  taught  before 
At  the  deep  springs  of  astronomic  lore. 

I  see  the  kitchen,  and  the  fire-place  black 

With  cranes  and  pot-hooks,  and  the  corner  where 
I  sat  befriended  by  the  homely  muse 

When  storms  were  howling  in  the  wintry  air, 
And  all  the  talk  was  weather  and  the  news. 

The  soul  was  happy  then  and  free  from  care, 
And  modern  culture  had  not  brought  the  blues. 


OUR  LADY  OF  SORROW 

(On  seeing  St.  Gauden's  figure  of  Grief  in  Rock  Creek 
Cemetery.) 

Methinks  I  see  that  cunning  hand  which  wrought 
More  than  the  marble  man  of  many  woes, 
The  woman's  crown  of  martyrdom,  the  rose 

Of  her  dead  youth  and  love,  the  shading  thought 


50  temotial  Volume 


Of  upraised  hand,  and  lo,  the  mantle  caught 
Under  the  chin,  in  Sorrow's  clutch  that  shows 
In  flowing  lines  inflexible  as  those 

In  bronze  of  Grief,  which  at  the  barrier  fought 

And  overcame  —  this  hooded  figure's  fraught 
Of  constancy  that  shows  itself  again 
In  every  fold  and  wrinkle  of  the  dress; 

How  Faith  looks  out  with  a  superb  disdain 

Of  desolation  and  of  emptiness, 

At  conquered  passion,  and  a  broken  chain. 


RONDEAU 

In  autumn  days  the  world  in  height 
And  depth  is  beautiful  to  sight. 
The  falling  leaf  is  everywhere, 
The  rainbowed  woods  are  drest  in  rare 
Colors  of  the  golden  light. 

November  days,  how  brief,  how  bright! 
Then  falls  the  clear  and  frosty  night; 
The  morning  shines  to  all  how  fair 
In  autumn  days. 

Fit  season  for  the  nuptial  rite! 

Spirits  are  gay,  the  church  is  dight 
With  flowers,  and  fragrance  in  the  air: 
Be  happy,  now,  O  married  pair! 

Be  blind  in  love  to  beauty's  blight 
In  autumn  days. 


of        n  £afcar  51 


LATE  AUTUMN 

The  colors  of  the  Autumn  world 

Are  fading  to  the  view; 
And  softly  touched  by  shining  haze, 

The  landscape  glimmers  through. 
The  purple  ranges  of  the  hills 

Melt  in  the  sapphire  skies; 
And  beautiful  as  heaven  below 

The  turquoise  water  lies. 

Nor  cold  nor  warm,  but  sunny  bright, 

The  perfect  autumn  weather; 
Such  days  as  you  and  I  have  spent 

On  Berkshire  hills  together! 
Who  ever  saw  on  this  dull  earth 

A  painting  equal  that 
Which  on  the  easel  of  the  hills 

For  Autumn's  picture  sat! 

The  conflagrated  wood  was  set 

In  flying  colors  fast; 
A  thousand  rainbows  to  the  eye 

Had  made  no  such  repast. 
The  bright  sun  set  his  funeral  torch 

To  myriad  burning  pyres 
In  red-leaved  oak,  or  crimson  ash, 

Or  scarlet  maple  fires. 

Like  lamps  along  the  village  street 

Or  torches  kindled  there, 
The  splendid  maples  all  a-row 

Made  bonfires  in  the  air. 


52  temorial  Bolume 


The  sunset  on  the  western  hills 

Lay  like  a  dying  brand; 
I  looked,  and  from  the  mountain  height 

What  pathos  in  the  land! 

I've  seen,  how  many  autumns  since, 

The  season's  changes  grow: 
Have  felt  in  cities,  on  brick  walls 

How  strange  that  afterglow! 
O,  nevermore  can  I  forget 

The  sunset's  dying  brand, 
When  looking  from  the  mountain  height, 

What  pathos  in  the  land! 

TENNYSON 

When  Byron  died,  the  bard  of  Haslemere 
In  boyish  grief  and  wonder  did  deplore 
The  passing  splendor  to  that  silent  shore 

Which  now  receives  him  in  the  season  sere. 

His  emigration  to  another  sphere 

May  teach  us  all  what  he  had  learned  before, 
Though  Byron  was,  and  Tennyson  is  no  more! 

Yet  Poesy  lives  forever  with  .us  here. 

She  gives  the  meed  of  her  "melodious  tear" 
To  parting  genius,  but  reserves  a  sheath 
For  new  aspirants  to  immortal  song. 

Nor  can  you  tell  of  all  that  live  beneath 

The  Sun  to-day,  who  yet  shall  wear  the  wreath  - 
To  whom  the  garland  and  the  robes  belong. 


of    tofn  £atoar  53 


THE  PERFECT  KNIGHT 

"He  was  a  very  parfait,  gentle  knight," 
Valor  and  courtesy,  a  blended  light 

Like  the  twin  stars  of  Leda  burning  clear 

Shed  grace  and  glory  on  his  wild  career. 
Ardent  in  love  and  foremost  in  the  fight, 
He  bore  the  token  of  his  lady  bright; 

The  chief  devoir  of  gallant  cavalier, 

To  kiss  a  dame  and  also  break  a  spear, 
The  proof  and  prize  of  courage  in  a  knight. 
This  was  the  picture  and  the  fair  ideal, 

The  mark  of  manhood  once;  that  bravest  he 
The  best  in  love  and  war  became  the  real 

Prince  of  the  flower  of  noble  chivalry. 
King  of  his  word,  and  stainless,  pure  in  soul, 
And  true  to  love,  as  needle  to  the  pole. 

JAMES   FENIMORE   COOPER 
In  scales  of  judgment  held  aloft  to  weigh 
The  spiritual  quality  in  men  and  things 
Manhood  is  more  than  crowns  of  sceptred  kings. 
But  thou  wast  moulded  of  fresh  western  clay 
And  filled  with  fiery  life  of  our  new  day, 

And  made  to  skim  the  world  on  ostrich-wings 
Of  fear  and  wonder  reckless  of  the  slings 
Of  an  outrageous  Press,  which,  bound  to  stay 
Thy  race  with  fame,  was  beaten  out  of  sight! 
Others  but  ended  just  where  they  began 
As  gilt  weather  cocks,  facile  to  a  man. 
But  being  challenged,  thou,  in  thickest  fight, 
Grasping  thy  country's  standard,  wrong  or  right, 
Was  first,  last  and  always  an  American. 


54  emorial  Bolume 


THE   END   OF   HAYING 

Jerusalem!  the  sun  is  hot. 

It  bakes  a  man  like  a  pipkin,  say, 
Like  swarthy  Dan  in  the  mowing  lot, 

Who  sweats  like  a  pitcher  born  of  clay! 
How  red  one  looks!  if  men  are  not 

All  reddish-brown  as  the  earth  to-day, 
No  fault  of  the  sun's  assaying: 

Hand  up  the  pitchfork  and  the  rake; 

Now  the  ' 'little  brown  jug"  by  the  handle  take, 

(It  is  only  sweetened  water,  Jake) 

And  "a  health  all  round!"  so  then,  we  make 
An  end  of  haying. 

Gee  up,  there!  Bright  and  Broad  as  one 

Together  start  the  creaking  wain; 
The  boy  on  top,  the  sinking  sun 

Glows,  and  o'erlooking  all  the  plain, 
As  Caesar  proud  of  the  red  field  won, 

He  glories  in  the  garnered  grain, 
And  holidays  for  playing. 

The  shadows  creep  o'er  field  and  stream, 

The  far-off  woods  in  sunset  gleam; 

As  the  old  squire  jogs  beside  the  team, 

He  falls  in  a  sort  of  wayside  dream  - 
At  end  of  haying. 

Here  come  the  girls!  they  will  catch  on, 
So,  pull  them  up,  and  stow  them  quick; 

They,  too,  enjoy  the  shaven  lawn 
By  cornfield  and  the  corn  in  silk. 


of    ^In  £afcar  55 


Better  than  both,  their  eyes  like  dawn, 
Black  eyebrows  and  white  arms  like  milk, 

Their  beauty  oft  betraying! 

The  great  barn  doors  are  now  let  slide: 
Over  the  ridge  we  go,  and  glide 
Under  the  tall  beams  high  and  wide, 
We  girls  and  boys  together  ride  - 
At  the  end  of  haying. 

The  supper  horn!  and  who  but  knows 
There's  doughnuts  in  the  pan  a-frying? 

As  home,  at  length,  the  last  load  goes, 
The  busy  housewife,  mother  trying 

To  do  her  duty,  one  eye  shows 
To  Blue  Eyes  in  the  cradle  lying! 
But  food  and  rest  there's  no  denying 

To  hungry  men-folk  tired,  in-straying; 
The  doughnuts  are  devoured  with  noise, 
Butter  and  cheese,  and  whitebread  choice; 
But  "cowcumbers"  he  most  enjoys, 
The  white-sleeved  farmer  with  his  boys, 
At  the  end  of  haying! 

CHIAROSCURO 

Around  all  souls  there  is  an  ether  fraught 

With  light  in  darkness,  full  of  thoughts  unborn; 

Fools  only  treat  it  with  a  shallow  scorn: 
The  clear  obscure  of  transcendental  thought, 
Like  deep-browed  Night  with  starry  veil  upcaught, 

Shows  more  and  greater  objects  than  the  morn 

Of  understanding  in  a  world  forlorn 
Of  all  things  save  the  knowledge  which  is  nought. 


56  ffitemotial 


Things  seen  and  known  familiarly  we  hate. 

Our  heads  want  heaven  —  never  too  high  the  vault; 

Bare  feet  perceive  the  virtues  of  the  globe. 
I  feel  a  thousand  things  I  cannot  state. 

What  then?     Is  their  obscurity  my  fault? 

Read  Homer,  Shakespeare,  and  the  book  of  Job! 


INDIAN   SUMMER 

When  the  harvesting  is  ended, 
Ere  the  festival  Thanksgiving, 
On  the  edge  of  gruesome  winter 
Comes  a  spell  of  pleasant  weather — 
Indian  Summer! 

Hangs  a  haze  above  the  landscape, 
Spreads  a  dimness  o'er  the  vision, 
And  the  lazy  earth  in  sunshine, 
Like  a  jewel  softly  shimmering, 
Gives  contentment. 


AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE 

Borne  to  his  rest  with  dirges  that  retreating 
Blend  in  the  distance  the  refrain  of  years, 

While  answering  bands,  the  solemn  air  repeating, 
Draw  heaven  itself  to  shed  some  gentle  tears! 

Though  all  too  late  and  vain  is  this  returning 
To  let  him  wear  the  laurel  on  his  brow, 

And  feel  the  heart  of  a  great  people  yearning 

To  him  who  "sleeps  in  dull,  cold  marble"  now — 


of  Stofjn  Jbafcarp  57 


See!  the  fleet  Iris  from  the  heavens  bringing 

Light  to  the  world  through  dark  skies  bending  o'er 
us! 

Hark!  the  clear  carol  of  the  brown  thrush  ringing 
Down  woodland  aisles  his  hallelujah  chorus! 

The  passing  breath  of  foolish  praise  or  pity 
Nature  forgets,  and  well  may  disregard; 

But  to  the  silence  of  her  sacred  city 

Receives  the  bust  and  ashes  of  her  bard. 

Perchance  the  future  poet  of  his  people, 

Haunting  this  grove,  as  he  loved  here  to  stray, 

Musing  this  pile  in  sight  of  dome  and  steeple, 
Shall  pause  beside  his  resting-place  to  say: 

"What  fatal  bar,  what  spirit  of  resistance, 
So  held  the  captive,  and  detained  him  long? 

Now  let  his  human  life  with  our  existence 
Blended  forever  be,  by  power  of  song! 

Here  rest,  O  restless  and  far-wandered  mortal, 
Laid  in  thy  native  earth,  no  more  to  roam! 

Dost  hear,  glad  spirit  at  the  heavenly  portal, 

A  world-wide  people  singing  'Home,  Sweet  Home'?" 

Oak  Hill,  June  9,  1883. 


PEEPING  FROGS 

Now  come  the  minstrels  of  the  swamp  and  pool, 
The  peeping  frogs  who  make  the  marshes  ring 
At  sundown  like  some  myriad-squeaking  thing! 

Thus  with  our  senses  Nature  plays  the  fool, 


58  ^lemorial  Volume 

And  has  these  blubberings  of  her  infant  school — 

Low  forms  that  make  more  noise  when  they  try  to 
sing, 

Kept  like  the  rune-stocks  of  the  ancient  spring 
In  notched  green  flags  among  the  waters  cool. 
I  know  the  blood-root  and  the  crocus  nigh, 

New  leaves  and  grass  and  winter  going  off 
Soon  as  the  earth  sends  up  that  herald  cry; 
It  makes  me  dream  of  summer  bye-and-bye, 

Of  shade,  and  cattle  at  the  drinking  trough, 
And  sunburnt  reapers  in  a  field  of  rye. 


IN  THE   FORTIES; 

OR, 

THAT  OLD   WHITE   HAT 

When  Greeley  wore  his  old  white  hat, 
The  party  badge  and  all  of  that, 
When  Webster  wore  the  buff  and  blue, 
And  Whigs  throughout  the  land  were  true 
As  their  tried  leader's  trenchant  blade 
To  principles  which  none  would  trade 
For  locofocos'  foolish  plunder, 
The  country's  brains  were  carried  under 
That  old  white  hat. 

Came  Adamses  and  Quincys  soon, 

Then  Choate,  and  Winthrop,  and  Calhoun; 

Came  Harry  Clay,  his  clarion  voice, 

And  Ewing  led  the  Bucktail  boys. 

The  old  Post-rider  on  the  fly, 

Flung  the  "Palladium"  or  the  'Spy." 


of  S^ftn  Jbatoarp  59 


The  land  with  oratory  rung, 
And  poets,  also,  were  who  sung 
That  old  white  hat. 

They  talked  of  Annexation  then, 
When  "Hell  and  Texas"  daunted  men. 
But  none  evoked  from  dread  abysm 
The  spectre  of  Imperialism! 
No  Julius  Caesar  yet  had  won 
To  the  brink,  then,  of  our  Rubicon: 
Nor  war  and  want  with  Standard  Oil 
Politics  combined  to  spoil 

That  old  white  hat. 

I  recollect  that  far  halloo 
"For  Tippecanoe  and  Tyler,  too!" 
Just  how  Maine  went  for  Governor  Kent, 
And  such  a  landslide! —  what  it  meant; 
How  the  whole  country,  bold  and  free, 
For  six  weeks  went  upon  a  spree! 
How  father  stormed,  and  almost  swore 
At  neighbor  Craig,  for  "Billy"  wore 
That  old  white  hat. 

The  old  Whig  Party  was  combined 
Of  "all  the  talents"  once  that  shined; 
Wealth,  culture,  learning  in  the  land, 
Joined  wit  and  worth  to  make  it  grand. 
'Twas  fit  to  govern,  and  its  creed 
Was  Ich  dien  —  the  country's  need. 
It  held  the  world's  respect  in  fee, 
It  had  respectability, 

That  old  white  hat. 


60  Jftemorial  Volume 

Our  haughty  Anglo-Saxon  race 
Then  lorded  it  with  power  and  grace 
In  lofty  strain,  the  source  to  be 
Of  eloquence  and  poesy; 
Till  men  forgot  it  could  install 
The  slave  pen  at  the  Capitol: 
And  demagogues  then  had  their  will, 
While  good  men  raised  in  worship  still 
That  old  white  hat. 


IN  A  STREET  CAR 

" Where  do  you  find  the  matter  for  a  sonnet?" 

Why,  any  girl  can  give  you,  for  that  matter, 

Enough  to  write  about  —  have  you  a  smatter 
Of  learning,  and  the  knack,  I'll  say,  to  con  it. 
The  charming  creatures  —  look  at  that  one's  bonnet  — 

Can  turn  your  head,  and  all  your  wits  can  scatter; 

But  keep  your  thoughts,  and  let  your  ink  bespatter 
Freely  the  page  when  you  are  writing  on  it. 

Certain  it  is,  a  pleasing  shape  and  air 
Are  most  engaging  when  you  wish  to  write; 

Form  to  yourself  an  image  of  the  fair, 
And  think  how  happy  you  could  be  to-night, 

In  all  your  pondering,  while  sitting  there, 
If  she  were  only  sitting  opposite! 


of     oftt  J>afcar  61 


THE  WIRES  AT  MIDNIGHT 

The  wires  a-humming  overhead  with  might 
Of  man's  intelligence  give  him  the  right 

And  power  to  be  the  Dionysian  ear, 

Which  gathers  all  those  strands  of  hope  and  fear, 
And  brings  the  secrets  of  the  earth  to  light! 

The  world's  great  business  must  go  on,  in  spite 
Of  all  things  coming  else  to  interfere 
With  necessary  working  brains  —  go  not  too  near 
The  wires  a-humming. 

The  morning  paper,  doubtless,  will  appear, 
And  I  shall  read  what  famous  wits  indite 
In  all  the  capitals  of  the  world  to-night. 
Wondrous  invention!     This  alone  makes  clear 
A  thousand  things  obscure  and  far-off  —  hear 
The  wires  a-humming. 


THE   PULLMAN  TRAIN 

The  Pullman  train,  which  our  inventive  race 
Designed,  for  steam,  to  conquer  time  and  space, 

Transports  you  now  in  a  first-class  hotel. 

Think  how  refreshing  and  delectable 
The  flying  landscape  looks  from  such  a  place! 
It  is  a  thing  of  beauty  and  of  grace, 

The  slave  who  had  Aladdin's  lamp  to  sell 

Could  never  beat  this  modern  miracle, 
The  Pullman  train. 


62  lemorial  Bolume 


Science  alone  has  wrought  the  mighty  spell. 
Thousands  must  travel;  and  'tis  very  plain 
That  all  on  earth  who  have  far  ends  to  gain 
And  love  the  luxury  of  traveling  well— 
For  them  and  others  nothing  can  excel 
The  Pullman  train. 


RONDEL 

A  little  serves  the  creature's  daily  need. 
Out  of  a  window  watch  the  sparrows  feed 
On  bread-crumbs  thrown,  or  maple  buds  preferred- 
Each  vagabond  a  blithe  and  careless  bird. 
No  invalid  is  he,  with  shattered  nerves; 
A  little  serves. 

His  wants  are  few  who  has  no  vain  desires; 
In  winter,  coals  and  candles  one  requires, 
But  no  Lucullus'  feasts  nor  costly  wines; 
Plain  food's  enough  for  him  who  sparely  dines. 
From  nature's  frugal  way  he  never  swerves; 
A  little  serves. 


QUARTRAINS 

A  sculptured  deed  without  a  name, 
A  head  with  lasting  sorrow  crowned; 

Death's  orbed  shield  of  deathless  fame  — 
God's  infinite  peace  is  poured  around. 


of    Pofn  £atoar  63 


LYRIC   SONG 

The  prisoned  fire  within  the  diamond  stone 
Is  the  wrought  secret  of  the  ages  long; 

Art  steals  in  words  a  passing  grief  or  moan, 
The  deathless  dew-drop  of  a  lyric  song. 

As  a  light  wind  the  breath  of  song  floats  by, 
But,  as  congealed  upon  the  printed  page, 

These  airy  nothings  to  the  world's  end  fly 
Beyond  the  glory  of  the  saint  or  sage. 


SMOKE   WREATHS 

The  farmer  builds  his  fire  at  break  of  day, 
And  standing  on  the  stone  step  by  the  door, 
The  morning  sun  upon  his  face  and  floor, 

Beholds  his  chimney-smoke  when  far  away 

A  cloud  of  tissue  shot  with  gold  and  gray. 
He  sees  the  transformation  but  no  more 
The  secret  cause  of  wonders  to  explore 

Will  give  a  thought  to  Nature's  miracle-play. 

The  poet  sees  by  aid  of  that  clear  flame 

Which  rises  from  the  hearthstone  of  his  heart 
A  morning  cloud,  a  wreath  of  vapor  broke; 

It  flies  abroad,  and  then  men  call  it  fame. 
His  business  here  is  poetry  and  art, 
Not  watching  vulgar  chimney-pots  that  smoke. 


64  lemoriai  Volume 


SCIENCE  AND   SUPERSTITION 

High  tides  and  winds,  that  signal  coming  storm 
To  dwellers  by  the  strand  or  lonely  wood, 
Harp  to  the  world  of  all  vicissitude. 

Oh,  sad  and  strange  men's  altered  state  and  form 

By  death  and  sorrow,  and  all  ills  that  swarm 
On  houseless  heads  in  tempest;  flesh  and  blood 
In  some  old  chronicle  of  field  and  flood 

Lived  long  ago  and  live  in  types  yet  warm. 

On  such  a  night,  of  old,  the  Wandering  Jew 

Was  much  abroad,  and  corpse-lights,  flickering  fire, 

In  fen  and  moorland  seen,  made  goblins  feared. 

But  when  the  late  storm-wind  around  us  blew, 

Through  rain  and  rack,  on  mast,  dome,  rocking  spire, 

Electric  lights  like  midnight  suns  appeared. 

CHRYSANTHEMUM 

Tears  —  on  my  hand !     Dost  thou  remember,  Dear, 
The  parting  sad  of  that  November  day? 
Twas  on  a  hill-top  that  o'erlooked  the  bay, 

And  we  were  quite  alone  but  standing  near. 

Thou  from  a  grassy  mound  the  flower  of  cheer 
Pluckt,  and  with  ribbon  on  my  shoulder  gay 
Pinned  in  a  love-knot,  didst  thou  truly  say, 

4  Wear  this  for  me  in  battle  without  fear!" 

Long  days  went  by  and  through  the  horrid  sights 

Of  war,  in  army  hospital  and  tent, 

I  saw  thee  move  among  the  wounded  knights. 

Thy  form  at  last  o'er  my  pale  form  was  bent; 
The  tears  were  falling  where  I  saw  thee  stand, 
The  white  chrysanthemum  in  thy  open  hand! 


of    tolm  <£afcar  65 


SUBMERGED 

Here,  on  this  mountain-top,  this  bald  and  hoar 

Summit  of  ages,  let  me  look  around 

Over  the  flooded  but  familiar  ground 
Where  the  great  "Ox-bow"  made  his  curves  before. 
A  tumbling  sea  of  billows  to  the  shore 

Removed  and  distant  as  the  dim  and  drowned 

Vale  of  my  fathers  filled  with  fluctuant  sound  - 
Is  that  the  River  that  I  knew  of  yore? 
Something  that  tells  me  I  shall  never  reach 

The  threshold  of  my  home,  from  which  a  boat 

Is  putting  off,  deprives  me  of  all  speech. 
My  life,  like  yonder  skiff,  seems  all  afloat: 
What  voices,  yet  receding  and  remote, 

What  hands,  what  torches,  passed  along  the  beach? 


THE  OCEAN  OF  LIFE 

The  weather  is  thick,  and  the  rote  of  the  sea 
Is  loud;  it  moaneth  exceedingly. 
I  walk  on  the  margin,  and  list  as  I  walk 
The  waves'  everlasting  babble  and  talk; 
And  I  try  with  all  my  soul  to  reach 
The  sense  of  their  dim,  inarticulate  speech. 
What  would  they  say,  the  curling  and  fleet 
Waves  in  their  coming  to  cream  at  my  feet? 
The  rolling  billows  that  foam  and  fret, 
Do  they  utter  the  note  of  a  wild  regret? 
And  farther  off  in  the  deep  sea-knell 
Hoarsen  to  something  like  "farewell!" 


66  emorial  Bolume 


Ah,  who  can  tell  me  what  they  say 
Forever  and  ever,  night  and  day 
Coming  and  going  on  shingly  beach, 
But  never,  so  far  as  I  know,  reach 
To  human,  clear  and  articulate  speech. 
And  have  they  a  voice  for  the  general  ear, 
'Tis  not  a  message  I  care  to  hear; 
But  what  do  they  say  to  you  and  me, 
The  waves  of  this  deep,  mysterious  sea? 
Forever  they  roll  to  the  eye  and  ear 
Their  awful  burthen  of  doubt  and  fear, 
But  with  it  they  mix  the  sense  sublime, 
The  voice  of  eternity  heard  in  time. 
As  inlander,  when  he  to  embark 
On  board  ship  bound  for  some  sea-mark, 
The  hardly  moving  vessel  stays 
By  mere  inertia's  sluggish  ways 
In  harbor  long,  and  seems  to  creep 
With  languid  airs  to  the  open  deep, 
And  then  with  sails  more  taut  and  trim 
With  a  good  stiff  breeze  appears  to  swim, 
Till  all  of  a  sudden,  going  well 
Uplifted  on  the  great  ground-swell, 
"This  is  the  ocean,"  says  to  himsel'- 
So,  looking  forward  o'er  the  brine, 
As  far  as  to  the  horizon  line, 
And  thinking  only  a  plank  can  be 
Betwixt  him  and  eternity, 
Comes  over  him  like  chill  airs  blown, 
A  sense  of  dread  —  the  Great  Unknown. 
The  tragedies  that  make  men  weep 
Come  not  by  perils  of  the  deep: 
The  peril  lies  to  the  innocent  in 
The  world,  its  whirlpits  of  deep  sin. 


of    Wn  £atoar  67 


Look  at  the  daily  papers;  these 
Long  lists  of  crimes  and  casualties. 
Great  cities  like  great  maelstroms  draw 
Beyond  the  pale  of  human  law: 
What  mad  hosts  there  rush  to  ruin 
In  vaster  whirlpools  of  deep  sin! 
And  who  can  picture  man's  despair, 
The  sea  of  upturned  faces  there 
Drawn  to  disaster  and  mischance 
By  downward  suck  of  circumstance! 
Some  swallowed  up  in  the  morass 
Of  sensual  appetites,  alas; 
Some  by  hereditary  sin 
Of  others  pushed  and  plunging  in; 
So  of  all  men  who  to  the  verge 
Of  life  approaching,  see  the  urge 
Of  the  incessant  sobbing  sea 
Whose  billows  roll  remorselessly. 
In  face  of  the  vague  and  vast  unknown, 
Who  does  not  dread  to  go  alone? 
What  is  behind,  Experience  shows, 
But  what's  before  him,  no  man  knows. 
He  only  knows  he  can't  desist 
From  marching  on  to  meet  the  mist 
Enshrouding  all  life's  hopes  and  fears, 
In  which,  of  a  sudden,  he  disappears. 
As  Mirza  saw  from  a  lofty  ridge 
Only  the  end  of  a  broken  bridge 
Whereon  (the  toward-end  of  the  world 
In  rolling  clouds  and  mist  upcurled), 
A  pilgrim  train,  the  walkers  on 
This  bridge,  like  all  the  rest  foregone 
By  many  pitfalls  which  are  laid 
For  feet  unwary,  I'm  afraid 


68  jftemorial  Volume 

Like  other  men  when  they  abscond 

To  the  abysmal  dark  beyond  — 

Who  goes  will  stumble,  fall  and  miss 

His  foothold  over  the  vast  abyss  — 

And  where  are  you,  then,  when  it  surged, 

If  not  among  the  great  submerged? 

Of  ships  that  in  the  offing  wait 

To  take  on  passengers  and  freight, 

The  ancients  thought  old  Charon's  barge 

The  best  to  carry  and  discharge; 

But  let  me  not,  I  pray  the  Lord, 

Once  mention  here  the  name  abhorred 

Of  Styx  or  Acheron,  where  it  rolls 

Its  ghostly  burden  of  dead  souls: 

But  let  me  for  your  sake  rehearse 

A  bit  of  Christian  poet's  verse. 

(That  man  of  orange-tawney  hue, 

Known  by  the  gossips  telling  you 

In  Florence  once  how  he  did  fare 

To  the  Land  of  Death,  and  lo,  there! 

For  proof  —  the  singed  beard  and  hair.) 

Remember,  he's  among  the  shades 

Yonder,  in  those  infernal  glades. 

"Thus  we,  with  wandering  steps  and  slow 

Passed  on,  as  going  against  the  grain 

Of  spirits  mixed  with  drizzling  rain, 

Amid  the  palpable  obscure 

Of  shadows  in  that  dismal  drain 

Of  darkness  and  of  souls  in  pain, 

And  there,  amid  a  world  of  strife, 

We  touched  upon  the  Future  Life." 

No,  not  that  river  of  ill  fame 

Debarred  of  heavenly  light  to  shame 


of    tot  J>abar  69 


The  sevenfold  circling  wave  that  ran 

Around  that  lowest  world  of  man— 

I  say,  not  death,  nor  the  deep  sea, 

But  life  is  the  awful  mystery. 

Though  science  dissect  with  keenest  knife, 

It  has  not  laid  bare  the  hidden  life. 

Thousands  have  searched,  and  others  will  — 

Remains  the  secret,  secret  still. 

And  though  Life  this  or  that  way  tends, 

Who  knows  where  it  begins  or  ends? 

No  matter  how  much  we  know,  a  baby 

As  much  as  we  knows  what  it  may  be. 

And  when  we  put  off  to  the  spirit  shore, 

As  no  man  knows  what  is  before, 

We  leave  to  flutter  on  wave  and  wind 

Never  a  rag  of  sail  behind. 

Strange!  that  no  word  from  the  other  side, 

Of  all  the  men  who  ever  died, 

Has  come  to  us  on  earth  to  tell 

What  at  the  moment  them  befell, 

Who  slipt  their  moorings  on  this  side. 

Instead  of  which  we  have  "last  words," 

Omens  and  oracles,  beasts  and  birds 

(Who  talked  in  the  ancient  pagan  world), 

Portents  and  prodigies  when,  hurled 

From  his  high  seat,  a  Caesar  dies. 

To  Nature,  then,  what  signifies 

Assassination,  murder,  hosts 

Of  apparitions,  and  of  ghosts? 

Naturally,  some  men  are  thunder- 

Struck  by  tales  of  wind,  and  wonder, 

Exclaiming  to  their  friendly  hosts: 

"What!     Then,  you  don't  believe  in  ghosts?" 


TO  emorial  Botume 


"I've  seen  too  many  such,  my  friend," 

Replies  the  skeptic,  and  "I'll  send 

To  you  for  each  authentic  ghost, 

Two  thousand  pages,  parcels  post, 

Of  proof  to  the  contrary;  this  I'll  do 

(If  you  will  pay  for't  in  the  end). 

Forward  your  contribution  to 

Society  for  Psychical  Research." 

But  what  your  ghost-seer  sees,  forbye, 

Sir  William  says,  "it's  all  in  your  eye," 

And  (will  you  now  come  down  from  your  perch?) 

Both  Crookes  and  Ramsay  say  they  will 

Produce  a  better  than  those  ill 

Materializations  when  —  keep  mum  — 

A  "mug"  appears,  and  always  some 

Determined  skeptic  mutters  "hum." 

But  yet  the  theosophs  may  say, 

The  time  will  come,  if  not  to-day, 

When  there  will  be  a  parcels  post 

Bureau  of  inter-mundane  ghost  — 

Seers,  who  will  receive,  'tis  said, 

Communications  from  the  dead 

By  spiritual  telegraph,  and  some 

Declare  it  has  already  come 

(The  news  yet  confirmation  lacks). 

I  question  who  draw  living  breath, 

As  we  that  go  from  life  to  death  — 

The  death  that  ends  us  —  is  that  all? 

You  think  so?     Well,  your  thinking  is 

The  end  of  you  —  at  least,  iwis 

It  may  be  so,  but  I,  God  wot, 

Say  if  the  future  life  is  not 

Important,  nothing  on  earth  is; 


ffioemg  of  gfrftn  £afratp 71 

Stick  a  pin  there!  and  I  say  this, 

Nor  Heaven,  nor  Hell,  nor  bale,  nor  bliss 

Concern  us  more,  but  mainly  how 

To  hold  the  everlasting  Now. 

Calcanda  via  leti,  all 

Who  dwell  on  this  terrestrial  ball 

(As  Horace  tersely  put  it  when 

He  marked  the  common  bourne  of  men), 

The  lot  is  drawn,  and  it  shall  fall 

One  day  on  earth  to  each  and  all 

The  creatures  who  draw  living  breath 

In  brief,  said  he,  the  way  of  death  - 

It  must  be  trodden  once  for  all. 

We  hold  on  earth  a  life  estate, 

Tenants  in  common;  death  and  fate 

Serve  notice,  and  we  can't  retrieve, 

Quit  and  abandon,  and  take  leave 

Of  house  and  land,  of  wife  and  child, 

And  friend,  also,  the  last  who  smiled 

On  you;  as  cloud  in  heaven  doth  fade, 

We  are  but  dust  and  empty  shade. 

A  country  most  obscure  and  flat 

With  filthy  drains,  lakes,  bogs,  and  mat 

Of  reeds  and  rushes — no,  not  that, 

But  just  its  modern  antonym, 

The  river  Jordan,  "holy  rim," 

Or  at  the  ferry,  waiting  bark 

For  coming  souls  there  to  embark  - 

"Carnage,  sir,  for  New  Jerusalem?" 

But  not  there  yet,  look  out!  the  bridge, 

We  are  on  it  now,  my  loyal  liege 

And  friend  beside  me,  nothing  new 

In  such  companionship  —  the  view  - 


72 jflcmoriat  Bolumc 

How  strange!  how  singular  is  this! 

Where  am  I?     Ho,  there!  did  you  miss 

The  last  one  over  the  great  abyss  ? 

He  disappeared  as  at  a  bound, 

Without  a  word,  without  a  sound! 

A  moment  since  —  how  blank  the  spot  — 

For  where  death  is,  the  man  is  not! 

And  does  it  merely  stop  the  breath  — 

Or  can  you  tell  me  what  is  death? 

Whether  we  think  or  say  so  here, 

'Tis  dying,  and  not  death  men  fear. 

And  possibly,  as  some  one  said, 

"As  life  to  the  living,  so  death  to  the  dead.1 

I  rather  like  what  Thoreau  said 

To  Parker  Pillsbury,  "Let  them  chime 

The  bells,  not  toll  —  one  world  at  a  time!" 

And  yet  not  so,  be  thou,  my  soul 

Persuaded  still  of  some  far  goal 

Toward  which  forever  it  shall  wend 

In  hopes  to  find  itself  and  friend, 

And  what  did  Schelling  say?     "Because 

From  all  eternity  I  was 

The  very  being  that  I  am," 

And  if  not  here  with  Uncle  Sam, 

I  shall  be  somewhere  in  the  game, 

Another  man,  and  yet  the  same. 

So  then,  no  pagan,  I  shall  say, 

Adsum,  at  the  general  muster;  aye, 

Comrade,  sure,  the  lot  will  fall, 

And  so,  as  Hamlet  said  withal, 

"The  readiness,"  indeed,  "is  all." 

If  you  are  ready,  all  is  well, 

Take  pilgrim  staff  and  scallop  shell, 


ffioemg  of  Sfrfrn  £abarg 73 

Gird  up  your  loins,  like  lion  bold 
Look  round  once  more  upon  the  old 
Familiar  faces  —    '  'good-bye,  friend, 
And  blessings  on  your  journey's  end." 
What  more,  then,  can  one  do  but  wend  ? 
Sometimes  he  can  only  stand  and  wait 
The  certain  coming  of  death  and  fate; 
And  that  is  the  test  of  manhood  when 
In  ways  superior  to  common  men, 
One  waits  and  calmly  draws  his  breath, 
When  face  to  face  with  imminent  death: 
For  death  is  nothing,  and  what's  the  sea 
But  a  drop  in  God's  immensity? 


MY  NEIGHBOR 

Much  loving  quiet  and  much  hating  noise, 

Pursuing  knowledge  as  the  Golden  Fleece, 

I  have  a  new  disturber  of  the  peace. 
You  cannot  guess  ?  None  of  those  horrid  boys 
Who  should  be  hooped  up,  and,  till  surfeit  cloys, 

Fed  through  the  bunghole  when  they  cry  and  tease: 

But  my  new  neighbor,  now,  is  none  of  these  — 
A  real  torment  —  and  the  first  of  joys. 

And  is  it  such  a  plague?  Well,  I  should  smile! 

She's  laughing,  singing,  crowing  all  the  while 
Till  slumber  comes  and  takes  the  Golden  Curl 

And  has  her  laid  in  the  sweet  death  of  sleep. 

And  I,  oft  plunged  in  midnight  musing  deep, 
Bless  God  for  her  —  my  neighbor's  little  girl. 


74  Memorial  Volume 

THE   WHEEL  OF  THE   LAW— 
A   BUDDHIST   IMAGE 

In  that  vast  realm  of  human  woe  or  weal. 
Which  man  inherits  and  in  part  controls 
I  heard  a  voice  that  thundered  to  the  poles, 

And  shook  the  world  with  following  peal  on  peal. 

It  was  the  Law  whose  million-spoked  wheel 
Still  on  forever  and  forever  rolls, 
Bearing  the  lots  of  myriad-minded  souls 

Whereon  the  destinies  have  set  their  seal. 

Our  actions  are  the  spokes  which,  white  or  black, 
Make  up  the  wheel  revolving  with  events; 
And  call  it  law,  or  fate,  or  Providence, 

Bound  are  we  to  the  wheel,  which,  turning  back, 
Bears  up  the  good  to  glory  and  delight, 
And  whirls  the  wicked  down  to  dwell  in  night. 

SUNDOWN   OF  THE   YEAR 

The  season  of  fine  sunsets!     They  relume 
The  dying  lamps  of  beauty  still  to  cheer 
The  said  waste  places  of  the  earth  whose  year 

Grows  darker  to  the  close.     They  brighter  bloom 

Along  the  gray  skirts  of  the  world  in  gloom 
Like  solitary  joys.     They  hint  the  clear 
Shining  of  some  immeasurable  mere 

In  that  pale,  edging  sky  round  earth  —  a  tomb. 

I  love  to  walk  alone  and  lonely  muse 

In  the  strange  light  of  the  straw-colored  eves. 
The  skies  are  clear,  but  one  long  crimson  bar 

Fed  from  the  heart  of  sunset  will  not  fuse 
Its  proper  glory  with  the  sky  that  weaves 
Its  blue  tent  yonder  for  the  Evening  Star. 


of    ton  £afcar  75 


TO  A  MOUSE   NIBBLING 

Thou  cunningest  little  creature!     Timid,  too, 
So  fearful  that  I  may  not  move  nor  stir 
Lest  I  disturb  thee  at  thy  small  feast,  sir! 

Leave  me  alone  the  timid  Muse  to  woo. 

She  is  more  dainty  delicate  than  who 

Scarce  ventures  forth,  and  if  a  cat  should  purr, 
Would  whisk  him  out  of  sight,  wayfarer, 

For  whom  a  crumb,  or  drop  of  paste  will  do. 

O,  Mousie,  not  alone  thou  nibblest  here 

In  this  great  library!    Many  a  book-worm  so 
Gnaws  at  the  book  for  whom  a  page  sufficeth. 

And  I,  thy  human  and  more  bold  compeer, 
Of  the  vast  book-world  may  as  little  know 
As  thou  of  markets  —  wherefore  who  despiseth? 

THE  TRAGEDY  OF  GENIUS 

Of  all  the  mournfulest  things  on  this  our  earth, 

The  tragedy  of  genius  is  most  sad. 

I  look  on  them  as  lunatic  angels,  mad 
By  the  mere  circumstance  of  human  birth! 
So  out  of  place,  so  out  of  time!     Their  worth 

Wholly  misrated,  and  their  best  deemed  bad. 

Time's  football  here,  till  time  or  fashion's  fad 
Of  one  man's  misery  makes  a  million's  mirth. 
Shelley  and  Keats!     Had  British  thorn  the  right, 

That  pair  of  English  nightingales  to  fray? 
Burns,  Collins,  Chatterton  and  Poe  —  what  blight! 

Milton  was  poor,  and  Dante  was  not  gay. 
The  Muses  led  blind  Homer  to  the  light, 

And  Virgil  was  a  conjurer,  they  say. 


76  memorial  Volume 


^SCHYLUS 

Titanic  still  among  the  Titans,  he 
The  superhuman  over  poets  rose, 
Rugged  as  Caucasus  with  eternal  snows; 

Grandeur  of  suffering  in  his  lines  we  see— 

The  Free-will  poet  of  Necessity ! 

He  paints  with  strength  the  vast  Promethean  woes, 
The  Heart  of  Freedom  where  the  vulture  grows 

Of  kingly  power,  and  mobs'  worse  tyranny. 
Genius  and  valor  of  the  Grecians  old 

Conquered  for  freedom  at  Thermopylae. 

And  that  same  genius  in  the  Bard  appears 
With  equal  courage  on  occasion  bold. 

Tyrants  of  earth !     To  you  and  your  compeers, 

His  words  a  sheaf  of  thunderbolts  let  be! 

MAGDALEN 

The  winds  of  Autumn  whisper  back  soft  sighing 

To  the  low  breathing  of  the  Magdalen; 
She  on  her  couch  of  withered  leaves  is  lying  — 

Dreams  she  of  days  that  come  not  back  again? 
No,  past  and  present  both  within  her  dying, 

Her  earnest  eyes  upon  the  page  remain: 
While  the  long,  golden  hair,  behind  her  flying, 

No  more  is  bound  with  ornament  or  chain. 
The  storm  may  gather,  but  she  doth  not  heed; 

Nature's  wild  music  enters  not  her  ears; 
Her  soul,  that  for  her  Saviour's  woes  doth  bleed, 

One  only  voice,  for  ever  sounding,  hears : 
1  'Follow  His  footsteps  who  thy  sins  hath  borne 
And  who  for  thee  the  thorny  crown  hath  worn." 


of    toN  £atoar  77 


AN  ITALIAN  SONNET 

Up  where  the  Northern  Appenines  put  on 
Their  summer  royal  robes  of  singing  green 
Vast  chestnut  woods,  which  hang  a  living  screen 

Betwixt  the  glare  of  marble  summits  yon 

And  the  green  hollows  where  brooks  babble  on 
The  flowery  slopes  of  bitter  amarene, 
Bloom  the  wild  cherry  fruits  that  gathered  been 

By  young  girls  on  the  eve  of  good  St.  John. 

Catrina,  sitting  in  the  vine-clad  porch 

Of  her  thatched  cottage  by  the  river-walk, 
Listens  to  gossips  of  the  village  talk 

About  to-morrow's  wedding  at  the  church. 
For  she  is  married  then,  and  shows  with  pride 
To  her  girl  friends  the  dowry  of  a  bride. 


THE   SUNSET 

I  saw  the  angel  of  sunset  stand — 
One  wing  on  sea  and  one  on  land. 

One  edge  of  earth  was  orange-bright, 
And  one  was  grey  with  steel-blue  light. 

Dust  of  stubble  and  plowed  lands  dun 
Rose  reddening  in  the  setting  sun. 

The  cattle,  wandering  slow  and  whist, 
Seemed  black  spots  in  a  burning  mist. 

The  ragged  edges  of  the  wood 
Were  bathed  as  in  a  crimson  flood. 


78  emorial  Bolume 


Where  barn  or  building  west  extends, 
It  set  on  fire  the  gable  ends. 

Upon  the  eastern  mountains  cold 
Glistered  the  brooks  like  threads  of  gold. 

But  opposite  that  glory  burned 
Which  even  use  to  beauty  turned. 

As  seemed  all  hues  in  heaven-had  birth 
Were  falling  down  at  once  on  earth. 

And  on  the  distant  hill-top's  crown 
Was  New  Jerusalem  let  down. 

That  crown  of  glory  seemed  to  swim 
A  mirage  light  that  haloed  him. 

On  his  wet  cheek  fresh  color  glowed 
As  toward  the  sunset  hills  he  strode. 

Great  thoughts  were  his,  and  songs  of  peace 
Hummed  in  his  breast  like  swarming  bees. 

He  reasoned  not  —  he  was  a  boy  — 
But  in  his  eyes  stood  tears  of  joy. 

With  joy  immense  his  heart  was  riven, 
And  how  it  swelled  to  be  forgiven! 

When  heart  is  right  and  heaven  is  near, 
How  eloquent  a  single  tear! 

But  did  the  vision  stay  for  him? 
E'en  as  he  gazed,  he  saw  it  dim. 


poems  of  S^ljn  £aimrp  79 

On  window-panes  a  glimmer  red 
Crept  from  the  dying  clouds  and  shed 

A  barren  splendor  on  the  grass 

And  seemed  the  World  about  to  pass. 

This  painting  vast  who  could  unroll, 
The  dread  apocalypse  of  soul? 


Who  saw  the  earth  in  wonder  drest, 
Who  carried  sunset  in  his  breast. 

A  little  seed  of  Heart's  Desire 

Had  burst  in  blood-red  bloom  of  fire. 

And  beauty  broke  from  wondering  eyes 
In  flashes  of  a  glad  surprise. 

This  world  was  new,  unknown  before 
A  secret  correspondence  bore. 

The  soul  in  things  appeared  divine 
And  made  the  true  duphinic  sign. 

A  boy  looked  up  and  left  his  play 
To  worship  God  in  his  own  way. 

There  was  no  way  but  feeling  pure, 
And  that  would  last  while  things  endure. 

But  still  the  mind  within  him  wrought, 
According  as  his  faith  had  taught. 

A  row  of  red-leaved  maples  stood 
Like  wounded  soldiers  streaming  blood. 


so  Memorial  Volume 

Who  mourns  the  loss  of  heaven-born  power? 
It  came  and  vanished  in  an  hour. 

It  came  and  went  and  was  to  be — 
That  sunset  over  land  and  sea. 

So  looked  the  world  to  Hebrew  boy 
Who  knew  and  clasped  an  awful  joy. 

And  so  when  thousand  autumns  roll 
May  look  the  World  to  prophet  soul: 

Rut  never  more  on  land  or  sea, 
Will  that  Evangel  come  to  me. 


WORSHIP 

Out  from  the  smell  of  coffin-mold, 
And  from  the  churchyard  gate! 
Why  should  I  enter  churches  cold, 
Or  in  dim  chapels  wait? 
Why  kneel  upon  the  gray  flag-stones  ? 
Why  drink  in  sighs  and  groans? 

Why  macerate 
My  body,  blood,  and  bones? 

My  body  is  a  lyre 
Composed  of  water,  earth,  air,  fire; 

With  them  is  kneaded  in 

The  soul  alive 

And  sensitive 
In  every  part. 
The  soul  is  organized. 
I  think  I  have  a  head, 
Am  sure  I  have  a  heart. 


ffioemff  of  Sty)**  £abarp si 

'Tis  chorded  like  a  shell, 

And  answers  to  the  touch. 

Feeling  is  overmuch. 

Abuse  it  not,  but  learn 

To  play  upon  it  well. 

And  for  the  reason  that  we  are 

Poetically  made  and  wrought, 

Painted  and  carved  material  thought, 

And  thought  is  worship,  thoughts  divine 

At  once  the  substance  and  the  sign 

Of  being,  and  a  spiritual  fact, 

'Tis  God  himself  caught  in  the  act. 

The  soul  attuned 
To  the  elements,  harpstrings 
Of  all  surrounding  things 

Is  vibrant  all, 

Harmonical, 
Divine  and  musical  - 

Outgrown 

From  one  small  seed,  Desire 
Planted  in  a  far  hour, 
Nourished  and  nurst 
All  tenderly,  until 
This  very  morn  it  burst 
In  blossom  of  air  and  fire! 
The  church  is  good  — 

For  those  who  like  the  sermon  and  the  psalm. 
But  I  prefer  the  calm 
Of  sunny  silence,  and  the  still 
Bright  beauty  that  is  there 
With  dove-like  Peace  upon  the  air 
Brooding,  by  south  side  of  a  wood. 


82  lemotiai  Volume 


I  need  not  walk 
In  any  silent  grove  of  death. 

I  hold  my  breath 
To  see  that  God  is  fair. 
Nor  would  I  with  the  ghosts  of  ages  talk, 

And  sin  and  death. 
Life  is  my  sermon,  psalm  and  prayer. 

Sweet  are  the  chiming  bells 
By  distance  softened  to  delight, 
Like  stars  upon  a  frosty  night, 
They  sprinkle  melody  around 
That  to  mine  ear  hath  crept. 
Brightly  the  sky  doth  shine 
Unto  this  heart  of  mine, 

Unto  this  heart. 
My  cordial  spirits  like  new  wine 

Have  got  the  start. 
Gladly,  as  on  I  roam, 
I  mark  the  distant  dome 
Of  the  Capitol  like  a  bubble  blown 

And  floating 
Softly  and  bright 
In  the  still  morning  light. 

SLUMBER 

Cover  me  up  warm  in  bed; 
Cover  me  from  feet  to  head. 
Now  I  feel  the  drowsy  creep 
Of  slumber  soft  which  is  not  sleep, 
Lying  in  my  poppied  nest, 
With  a  genial  warmth  opprest, 


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I  have  gone  and  drunken  more 
Of  sweet  slumber  at  each  pore; 
Eyelids  of  my  heart  a-winking, 
I  am  always  drinking,  sinking 
Downward  through  the  ooze  of  sleep, 
Many,  many  fathom  deep, 
Being  perfectly  at  ease 
Where  all  pain  and  sorrow  cease, 
Where  sounds  of  daylight  fail 
And  the  twilight  spells  prevail, 
Deepening  to  a  hush  like  Death 
Where  all  Nature  holds  her  breath. 
Now  a  barge  across  the  lake 
Cometh  for  a  soul  to  take. 

"MOTHER,  I  HAVE   SAVED  ONE. 

I  saw  a  little  girl 

Running  about  the  beach; 
Each  pebble  was  a  pearl 

She  tried  to  grasp  and  reach. 
Her  chubby  fists  were  full, 

Her  apron  it  held  more; 
Yet  she  was  sorrowful 

To  leave  so  vast  a  store; 

Because  the  naughty  nurse 

Down  running  to  the  beach, 
Caught  up  the  child,  and  worse, 

Her  treasures  all  and  each 
Made  spill  along  the  road 

Till  all  but  one  was  gone; 
But  that  she  proudly  showed, 

"Mamma,  I  have  saved  one.9' 


84  Memorial  Volume 

Great  cities  make  us  think 

Of  their  young  lives  in  shoals, 
Like  pebbles  on  the  brink 

Where  mighty  ocean  rolls. 
If  you  can't  save  them  all, 

Grasp,  like  the  little  girl, 
And  have,  when  nurse  doth  call, 

One  pure  and  priceless  pearl. 

For  while  we  gather  some 

Along  the  shining  way, 
The  nurse  will  surely  come 

And  carry  us  away. 
Give  not  an  ugly  name 

To  her  who  stops  men's  breath, 
But  let  some  jewel  flame 

Out  from  the  Dust  of  Death. 


1  THE   EMPTY   SINGER   OF   AN    IDLE   DAY" 

I 

An  English  poet  in  preluding  song, 

Seeking  some  cause  or  reason  for  the  lay, 
Prefers  himself  before  the  world  to  wrong, 

"The  empty  singer  of  an  idle  day." 
For  such  he  seems  while  piping  to  the  throng 

In  life's  mad  vortex  whirling  on,  away, 
Reckless  of  treasures  which  to  them  belong 

Whose  hearts  are  young,  whose  heads  are  growing 

gray. 
Mankind  had  leisure  once  to  mark  and  hear 

When  poets  sung  or  minstrels  tuned  the  lyre; 

Now  the  vexed  ear  of  the  great  world  doth  tire: 


ffioemg  of  SFofrn  £afrarp 85 

The  critic  comes  with  Mephistophelian  sneer 
And  supercilious  brow  to  take  offense, 
And  readers  read  with  calm  indifference. 


II 

The  singer  fails  in  song-craft  overwise. 

Should  one,  by  some  diviner  madness  stirred, 
Venture  to  soar  above  the  common  herd, 

By  the  sharp  critic's  penny  pen  he  dies. 

With  wing  unsteady,  failing  in  the  skies, 
He  wavers,  falls,  and  like  a  wounded  bird 
In  reedy  silence  maketh  moan  unheard. 

Though  all  the  air  be  vocal  with  his  cries, 

Always  the  present  singer  lacketh  grace. 
Surely,  ye  praise  him  not  till  he  is  cold! 
For  wit,  like  wine,  grows  better,  growing  old. 

But  why  should  lees  and  vapid  commonplace 
Pass  now  for  wit  or  wisdom  under  names 
The  age  has  gilded  with  its  lying  fames? 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

Born,  like  the  world,  in  spring,  a  soul  confined 
In  the  strict  zone  of  thought,  by  happy  fate, 
Succinct  and  beautiful  as  the  Muses'  mate, 

The  perfect  model  of  a  man  designed 

To  teach  the  age,  and  meliorate  mankind; 
Alighting  on  our  planet,  not  too  late 
Returned  to  heaven,  benignant,  pure,  and  great, 

That  spirit  rare  by  nature  joined  to  kind 

His  beauty  was  of  power,  a  power-like  pearl: 


86  jftemorial  Bolume 

The  brightest  and  the  highest  thought  inlaid 
With  those  transcendant  colors  of  the  mind, 
Mystic  and  seer  and  scientist  combined, 

Nature's  high  priest  and  oracle  obeyed, 
The  angelic  doctor  blushing  like  a  girl. 

GOD'S   HERO 

(In  Memory  of  Prof.  Albert  Hopkins.) 
He  wore  no  plume,  nor  carried  glove  nor  glaive, 
And  the  proud  war-horse  never  he  bestrode; 
But  on  the  narrow,  steep  and  arduous  road 
Of  virtue  toiling,  travel-worn  and  brave 
With  loins  girt  up,  he  went  with  mind  to  save 
The  fallen,  and  relieve  the  galling  load 
Of  sin  and  misery  whose  dreadful  goad 
Urges  men  on  destruction  and  the  grave. 
But  not  for  him  the  harnessed  thunder-steeds 
Of  Victory  rushed  on  fields  of  glory;  shorn 
Of  laurels  raised  from  carrion-flesh  abhorred, 
He  found  his  recompense  in  those  pure  meads 
Where  shriven  souls  like  water-lilies  borne 
Lift  up  their  hearts  with  incense  to  the  Lord. 

TRUST 

My  shallop  that  sat  still  a  sheeted  wraith 
On  waters  moonless,  tideless,  windless,  dark, 
And  scarcely  showing  virtue's  signal  spark 

Above  the  stagnant  sea  of  life-in-death, 

Feels  now  the  rapture  of  a  heavenly  breath 
Filling  the  sail,  which  bears  my  moving  bark 
Right  onward,  rushing  to  the  far-shown  mark 

By  the  great  lights  of  knowledge,  virtue,  faith. 


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Had  we  not  confidence  in  this  our  just 

Pilot  of  Souls,  who  then  would  put  to  sea? 
Came  there  no  urge  of  spiritual  sympathy 

To  move  this  mass  of  animated  dust, 
Pillar  of  fire  and  cloud  could  never  be 
That  infinite  Hope  which  conquers  all  mistrust. 

SIN 

The  spring  was  late  that  year  of  years  gone  by, 
And  snow  in  patches  lay  upon  the  ground. 
I  scarce  remember  how,  but  yet  I  found 

Myself  wayfaring  on  the  mountains  high, 

Night  coming  on,  and  storm  was  in  the  sky. 
My  way  abrupt  and  sheer  to  vales  profound 
Showed  me  the  hollow  earth  in  darkness  drowned, 

And  awful  shapes  rose  up  before  mine  eye. 

Then  all  that  I  had  heard,  or  read  in  youth 
Milton,  Dante,  Bunyan  or  Bible 
Came  rolling  on  my  mind  in  seas  of  doubt, 

Enforced  by  all  the  thunders  of  the  truth 
Whose  batteries  open  on  that  fortress,  Sin 
Girdled  with  fires  of  hell,  and  heaven  shut  out. 

OCTOBER 

The  sun,  now  at  the  Crab's  autumnal  sign, 
Around  the  circle  swings  our  little  sphere, 
Trailing  a  splendor  out  so  burning  near 

That  earth-born  spirits  tremble  in  the  fine 

Air,  and  brimful  of  rich  October's  wine, 
Feel  such  exhilaration  in  the  clear 
Life  of  the  bright  and  buoyant  atmosphere, 

They  want  but  wings  to  soar,  and  sing  and  shine. 


88 fflemortal  Botume 

In  converse  sage  friends  loiter  by  the  way, 
Spending  the  golden  hour  ere  evenfall. 

Come,  dress  thy  soul,  be  happy,  for  to-day 
The  world  puts  on  the  air  of  festival. 
On  rainbowed  wood,  and  wold,  and  mountain  wall, 

What  light  shines  through  the  vesture  of  decay! 


FUIT  ILIUM 

O  soul,  sonorous,  musical,  and  more 
Harmonic  than  the  spheres  that  were  made  last 
And  leading  symphony  of  the  worlds'  dicast, 
Where  is  the  key  of  melodies  forlore? 
There  rolls  the  burden  of  Time's  nevermore 
Before  that  Sorrow  voiceless,  vague  and  vast, 
Which  dumbs  to  silence  all  the  happy  past  — 
A  grief  of  sobbing  seas  without  a  shore. 

The  frailest  outworn  creature  leaves  his  shell 
Behind  him  on  the  beach;  and  that  is  all 
The  poet  leaves  —  the  record  of  his  verse; 
A  tarnished  shining  dress,  poor  irised  cell, 
The  bower  of  beauty  once,  now  darkness'  pall, 
The  sepulchre  of  thought,  sad  music's  hearse. 

HYACINTH 

Sweet  Hyacinthus,  noble  in  thy  death, 
And  nobler  in  the  life  the  God  bestows! 

The  perfect  bud  of  boyhood  by  a  breath 

In  recompense  of  that  which  fate  o'erthrows  — 

By  jealous  Zephyr  slain,  tradition  saith  - 
From  thy  spilt  blood  on  earth  forever  grows, 


of    ^tt  J>atoar  89 


Spotted  and  purple-stained  through  mortal  skaith, 

The  stately  flower  that  from  the  ground  uprose. 
Still  in  thy  leaves  we  trace  the  crimson  hue 

Of  blooming  youth  and  beauty  early  cropt 
By  cruel  fate;  and  in  thy  cup  of  blue, 

The  sorrow  of  the  God  who  might  have  dropt 
A  tear  from  shining  eyes  that  sudden  grew 

Dark-purple  as  that  stain  when  thy  heart  stopt. 


VIOLIN 

Then  came  the  master;  from  the  violin 

Outpouring  sounds  like  golden  humming  bees 
That  fill  the  air  and  swarm  upon  the  trees 

Did  murmur  in  me  such  harmonious  din 

I  dreamed  myself  beside  a  rocky  linn, 

Or  catching  glimpses  on  the  pleasant  leas, 
Looking  through  sunny  vales  to  singing  seas 

As  far-sailed  ships  across  the  world  come  in. 

That  wordless  music  had  a  voice  to  me 
Charming  my  passions  into  perfect  rest. 
As  light  is  but  the  blended  colors  seven, 

So  differing  souls  are  joined  in  harmony. 
For  he  that  is  on  earth  sweet  music's  guest 
Gains  all  we  know  or  think  or  dream  of  heaven, 


SUDDEN  DEATH 

Voices  of  anguish  —  wherefore,  whence  the  wail? 
Death  in  high  places  I  Sudden  death,  and  where 
Roses  are  wreathed  in  laughing  maiden's  hair 

Hushed  is  the  sound  of  revelry,  the  pale 


oo 


Destroyer  comes,  the  lights  grow  dim,  the  gale 
Of  laughter  sinks  to  dirges  on  the  air; 
In  banquet-hall  alone  treads  dark  Despair, 

And  all  the  customed  sounds  of  joyance  fail. 

Not  once  nor  twice  that  messenger  has  come! 
But  in  some  time  and  place  his  loud  knocks  pall 
The  land  with  terror;  least  and  greatest  fall 
Like  reed  or  oak:  the  tap  of  muffled  drum 
Follows  the  soldier's  hearse,  and  sorrow  dumb, 
For  rich  and  great  makes  a  state  funeral. 

WAITING  FOR  DEATH 

Her  life-work  done,  she  sits  with  folded  hands  — 
Brave,  patient,  pure,  devout,  but  passive  still; 

Or  if  at  times  some  household  task  demands 
The  instant  duty  which  she  can  fulfil, 

She  does  it  as  a  person  waiting  stands 
To  take  a  journey;  as  a  mother  will 

Perform  some  little  act  which  most  endears 

Her  memory  embalmed  in  children's  tears. 

ONLY  A  TEAR 

Do  you  remember  in  your  Dante  here 

Reading  that  passage  (please  to  look  below 
In  canto  five,  the  Purgatorio). 

Where  in  the  stream  of  his  deep  verse  and  clear, 

He  speaks  of  one  who  says  he  plumbed  the  sheer 
Profound  of  hell,  and  from  the  abyss  of  woe 
God's  angel  took  him  up,  and  saved  him  so, 

Just  for  the  sake  of  one  poor  little  tear. 


of     ofn  £atoar  91 


How  terrible  his  doom  who  cannot  shed 

One  tear  for  others,  in  his  marble  woe! 
Far  better  are  the  eyes  with  weeping  red. 

Who  was  it  told  the  guilty  woman,  "Go!" 
Forgiven  —  "thy  sins  which  were  of  scarlet"  said 

The  pitying  angel,  "shall  be  white  as  snow." 

THE   FALLEN  ROOF-TREE 

The  apple  blooms  drop  down  when  light  winds  pass 
Over  the  spot  that  in  the  sunshine  flack, 
The  grace  of  nature  somehow  seems  to  lack, 

No  less  than  human  sympathy  —  alas, 

The  mouldered  rafter  in  the  rank  tall  grass, 
Dock-weed  and  nettle  growing  in  the  slack 
Of  stones  unmortised  from  the  chimney-stack, 

And  thrown  down  there  in  a  disjointed  mass. 

More  than  a  grave  is  that  unsightly  hole; 
A  grave  unfilled  in  the  long  tract  of  time 
Since  fled  the  ghost  of  that  unburied  joy 

Which  once  was  man  —  a  living  human  soul  — 

Who  saw  the  blue  smoke  from  his  hearth-stone  climb, 
Returned,  at  eve,  to  meet  his  wife  and  boy. 

HOARFROST 

"He  scattereth  the  hoarfrost  like  ashes."  —  BIBLE. 
From  the  Inferno,  Canto  XXIV,  v.  1-15. 

In  the  year's  forehead  when  the  flaming  sun 
Tempers  his  locks  beneath  Aquarius'  urn, 
And  the  nights  shorten  as  the  days  stretch  on; 

When  on  the  ground  the  Hoarfrost's  pen  doth  yearn 
To  copy  there  the  likeness  of  her  white 
Sister,  but  the  distempered  nib  will  turn; 


92  emorial  Bolume 


The  countryman  whom  forage  faileth  quite 
Gets  up  and  sees  the  feather-frosted  plains; 
Whereat  he  slaps  him  on  the  thigh  outright; 

Goes  in  the  house,  and  up  and  down  complains 
Like  the  poor  wretch  that  loseth  heart  of  grace; 
Then  out  he  goes  again,  and  hope  regains 

Seeing  the  world  doth  wear  a  changed  face 

In  a  brief  while,  and  takes  his  shepherd's  crook, 
And  drives  the  flock  forth  to  their  feeding-place. 

ON  A  PRETTY  CHILD 

Child,  with  the  soft  blue  eye,  and  cheeks  that  glow, 

Like  rosebuds  wet  with  morning  dew; 
Fairer  thou  shalt  be  when  those  beauties  grow 

That  now  are  sweetly  folded  up  in  you. 
Would  that  I  were  the  far-off  waiting  sigh 

Of  Love,  whenas  that  shall  come  to  share 
The  tender  secret  round  thy  mouth  and  eye, 

And  make  thee  happy  as  thou  art  most  fair! 

ON   BEING  GOOD 

Be  good,  be  good!     It  is  the  great  ding-dong, 
Of  preacher,  poet,  sophist,  bard  or  sage, 
Heard  in  all  mouths,  and  read  on  every  page  - 

The  same  old  story  and  the  same  old  song. 

In  every  style  and  language,  right  or  wrong, 
Thundered  from  pulpit,  whispered  on  the  stage, 
The  well-worn  commonplace  of  every  age 

Which  the  world  hears  —  and  goes  on  right  along. 

There  is  philanthropy  of  a  kind  that's  rank 
And  smells  to  heaven  —  it  has  ulterior  view. 


of    ton  £afoar  93 


Have  you,  sir,  any  business  here?    Then  thank 
The  Lord  in  heaven  who  gave  you  work  to  do; 

About  your  business  go  and  turn  a  crank. 

Hand-organ?  Yes,  be  good  for  something,  you! 

DUTY 

What  is  duty?     When  the  hour 

And  the  task  arrive  together, 

Then,  in  foul  or  in  fair  weather, 
Take  the  sledge,  and  smite  with  power 
On  the  anvil  nearest  you. 

Work  with  all  your  might  and  main, 

Work  with  hand,  and  heart,  and  brain, 
That  is  duty,  to  be  true 
And  fulfil  your  office  —  ask 
No  excuse,  but  do  the  task. 

"ALL'S  WELL" 

I  seemed  to  stand  upon  an  Alpine  height, 

And  hear  far-breaking  in  their  mountain  caves 
A  rolling  thunder  as  of  ocean  waves. 

It  was  the  Law,  eternal,  infinite, 

Which  lifts  the  good  to  glory  and  delight, 

And  downward  drives  to  their  dishonored  graves 
Whom  lust  or  greed  or  selfishness  enslaves, 

Fallen  and  lost  and  buried  out  of  sight. 

Eternal  cause,  eternal  consequence! 
Good  to  the  good  and  to  the  evil  ill; 
Blessing  or  cursing,  now  choose  which  ye  will, 

But  blame  not  that  great  law  of  Providence 
Which  as  you  sow  the  good  seed  or  the  bad, 
Shows  you  the  harvest  which  makes  glad  or  mad. 


94  Memorial  Volume 


HIS   LAST  RIDE 

I 
When  seeing,  after  four  long  years  of  stress 

And  storm  of  action,  Peace  her  ways  prepare, 

And  all  the  land  put  on  a  festal  air, 
Did  Abraham  Lincoln  in  his  looks  no  less, 
Leaving  behind  his  usual  sombreness, 

And  his  most  melancholy  load  of  care, 

Gladly  go  forth  with  the  rejoicing  fair, 
Clothed  on  with  all  his  people's  tenderness. 
'Twas  the  last  day,  and  his  last  ride,  alack, 

His  last  but  one,  who  had  alone  to  go 
To  his  long  home,  the  world  all  gone  to  wrack  - 

What  miles  of  mourning  streets!  what  cities,  lo, 

Like  black  beads  strung  the  rosary  of  woe, 
Across  the  land!  Hung  were  the  heavens  in  black. 

II 

Thrice  in  my  time  have  I  beheld  that  slow 
Procession  move  at  Murder's  beck  and  deed! 
Thrice    hath   our   state   been   garbed    in    mourning 
weed, 

As  even  thrice  by  the  assassin's  blow 

The  chief  magistrate  of  the  land  laid  low! 
No  ancient  tragedy  could  well  exceed 
In  horror  and  in  hate  whose  awful  seed 

Flowered  in  such  fruitage  of  transcendent  woe. 

Such  themes  as  these,  because  they  held  of  yore 
The  springs  of  tragedy  in  their  deep  source, 
Shakespeare  and  Aeschylus  brought  upon  the  stage. 


of     on  £atoar  95 


Were  it  not  wisely  done  to  reach  the  core 
Of  murderous  anarchy  by  laws  in  force, 
And  set  example  of  a  better  age? 

THE  PEN   IN  THE   CLOUD 

My  friend's  great  grief  and  sorrow  for  a  child 
Afflicted  me  —  because  in  his  white  face 
I  saw  entombed  the  hopes  of  all  his  race 

And  none  could  comfort  him; —  a  grief  not  wild, 

As  woman's  is,  but  hopeless,  patient,  mild. 
For  women's  feelings  like  soft  marriage  lace 
Invest  a  sorrow  with  a  certain  grace: — 

But  grief  like  his  —  my  friend  nor  wept  nor  smiled. 

I  told  him  then  to  do  as  poets  use 

Who  take  a  pen  in  hand  and  all  conjoint 
With  the  still  heavy  cloud  of  grief  that  girds 

A  lonely  heart  —  no  comforter  like  Muse! 

She  guides  the  sorrow  down  the  pen's  sharp  point 
Precipitate  in  a  gentle  shower  of  words ! 

MATINS 

Now  morning  comes  with  scarf  of  grey 

To  usher  in  the  new-born  day. 

The  mountains  stand  with  foreheads  white 

In  still  sublimity  of  light. 

Behind  the  veil  of  waterfalls 

White-waving  from  the  mountain  walls 

High  over  rocks,  high  over  pines, 

The  infinite  sacred  morning  shines. 

From  off  the  earth  and  crystal  seas 

It  washes  all  impurities. 


96  lemotial  Bolume 


No  less  the  sweat  of  works  and  days 

The  dust  and  scum  of  yesterdays 

Upon  the  surface  of  our  dreams 

Are  washed  away  in  those  pure  streams. 

Now  Heart  of  Man  fresh  from  the  deep 

Lifts  level  from  the  seas  of  sleep. 

His  orb  of  duty  slowly  fills, 

Prepared  to  climb  the  heavenly  hills, 

With  courage  of  the  new-born  day 

And  dragons  of  the  darkness  slay. 

Fulfilled  it  is  of  worship  then 

Light-bringer  to  the  sons  of  men! 

For  speed  of  thought  and  strength  of  limb 

By  right  of  old  belong  to  him 

The  finder  out  of  arts  and  arms, 

Forger  of  weapons  and  of  harms; 

Maker  of  alphabets  which  find 

The  universe  of  living  mind 

And  bring  to  us  untarnished  gold 

The  immortalities  of  old. 

The  ends  of  earth  together  brought 

By  telegraphic  sign  of  thought 

The  Word  whose  distillation  brings 

The  essences  and  souls  of  things, 

Preparing  still  new  births  of  mind 

To  tame  and  civilize  mankind. 

Emerging  from  sleep's  solitude 

Man  and  the  world  are  both  renewed. 

The  mind  whose  floors  has  Morning  gained 

Stands  as  a  temple  unprofaned. 

Who  comes  with  pure  and  innocent  eye, 

And  maiden  thought,  may  lift  on  high 


ffioemg  of  ffiitm  £afratp 97 

A  soul-and-body  breathing  hymn 
Impleted  and  inspired  by  Him. 
Religion  is  a  flight  of  soul 
Unto  the  One  and  only  whole, 
In  exercise  a  bar  of  rest 
To  swing  from  better  on  to  best. 


NERO  AND  AGRIPPINA 

When  burning  Rome  lay  reddening  in  the  dye 
Of  conflagration,  and  like  torrent  swirled 
All  things  to  ruin  and  destruction  hurled, 
"Give  me  the  lyre,"  cried  Nero,  from  the  high 
Balcony  of  the  Golden  House;  "I'll  try 

That  song  of  Ilion,  when  the  smoke  upcurled 
Above  the  roof  of  Priam,  and  the  world 
Of  Troy  sank  down  in  ashes  soon  to  lie." 
It  was  an  awful  moment;  glory,  shame, 

Men  like  wild  beasts,  the  hydra  mob  was  seen 
With  hurrying  torches;  one  could  just  descry 
Aloft,  on  crumbling  tower,  by  eating  flame, 

That  tigress,  twice  bereaved,  the  empress-queen, 
Etched,  as  in  silhouette,  against  the  sky! 


THE  LANDING 

Over  a  flowery  land  the  light  mists  flee, 

And  from  the  anchored  ships  the  crews  are  gone. 
As  "washed  with  morning  their  moorings  shone!" 

Lo,  the  clear  sapphires,  of  the  heaven-hued  sea 
Shine  like  a  floor  of  lapis  lazule. 


98  Jftemorial  Volume 

But  the  grand  Admiral  and  the  Viceroy  thrown 
With  tears  and  kisses  on  the  earth  lay  prone, 
And  all  rejoiced  with  joy  exceedingly, 
Hemmed  in  with  wondering  naked  men  at  loss 
And  all  in  pomp  of  scarlet  and  of  gold; 
The  risen  Viceroy  in  his  hand  unfurled 
The  banner  royal  blazoned  with  a  cross 

Vert,  and  surmounted  with  a  crown  that  told 
Who  gave  Castile  and  Leon  a  new  world. 

FEMINA  MUTABILE 

Said  Virgil  of  yore,  in  classical  lore, 

That  woman  was  truly  wanting  in  stamina; 

And  for  it  comes  pat  in,  I'll  give  you  the  Latin: 
"Mutabile  et  varium  semper  femina" 

This  mutable  she  always  was,  and  will  be, 

Like  the  wind  and  the  wave,  the  cloud  and  the  foam; 

No  being  most  airy,  no  sprite  yet  nor  fairy, 
Plays  tricks  so  fantastic  abroad  or  at  home. 

The  falling  leaf  brown,  the  soft  thistle  down, 
Is  like  her  the  most  because  most  uncertain; 

So  wavering  still,  our  pulses  to  thrill, 

She  comes  like  the  rustle  of  air  in  a  curtain. 

To-day  with  your  fair,  an  agreeable  air, 

Tricked  out  like  the  rainbow,  how  sweet  she  appears! 
To-morrow  she'll  frown,  and  the  sky  will  pour  down, 

If  not  in  a  shower,  in  a  drizzle  of  tears. 

His  hand  on  the  tiller,  the  wind  that  drops  stiller, 
Now  comes  in  a  puff,  and  dies  out  as  it  goes; 

What  helmsman  is  there  can  steer  by  such  air, 

It  whiffles  about  so,  and  which  way  —  who  knows? 


of        H  £afoat  99 


This  foible  of  sex  which  the  wise  can  perplex, 
The  trick  of  all  women,  who  had  it  of  old, 

From  Eve  in  the  Garden  to  the  last  Dolly  Varden 
Plays   the  mischief  with   men   straightforward   and 
bold. 

The  pig  that  one  meets  all  manner  of  streets 

Goes  up,  or  attempts  to,  with  start  and  with  lurch; 

And  that's  just  the  way  that  a  woman  to-day 

Behaves  with  a  man  when  she  steers  for  the  church. 

The  mart  matrimonial,  the  church  ceremonial, 
She's  headlong  to  urge,  but  behind  if  she  can; 

And  give  her  the  odds,  she'd  beat  all  the  gods, 
With  delays  and  excuses  for  fooling  a  man. 

She's  a  cushion  of  pins,  as  a  penance  for  sins, 

When  you  sit  on  the  stool  of  repentance — 'tis  true, 

With  petty  annoyance  she  kills  all  the  joyance, 
And  makes  life  a  torment  to  her  and  to  you. 

She's  given  to  pouting,  to  teasing  and  doubting, 
Misfortune  is  hers,  she's  always  a-miss; 
But  though  we  may  flout  her,  we  can't  live  without  her, 
Who  twines  like  the  ivy,  and  rhymes  bliss  with  kiss. 

ON  A  LADY   IN   CHURCH 

Most  gentle  lady,  and  in  truth  most  fair, 
Forgive  me  if  in  homage  of  thy  face, 

I  do  forget  myself,  the  time  and  place, 

Only  remembering  of  thy  beauty  rare 

The  dead  wan  gold  of  eyelash  and  of  hair— 
The  pure  refinement  of  a  high-bred  race, 
The  soul  of  delicacy,  exquisite  grace, 


ioo  emorial  Bolume 


The  winning  smile  and  sweet,  engaging  air. 

I  feel  thy  utter  feminine  graces  strong 

O'erlapping  so  my  robust  masculine  sense, 
As  soft  airs  falling  on  a  harp-string  tense, 

Break  into  sad  and  plaintive  undersong, 
Complaining  how  we  gladly  suffer  in  it, 
Ages  of  torment  for  one  happy  minute. 


BEING   IN   DOUBT 

Amazed  I  stand  beneath  the  sky, 
And  wonder  who  on  earth  am  I. 
Who  brought  me  to  this  unknown  land? 
Ten  thousand  leagues  of  sea  and  sand 
Divorce  me  from  the  Man  of  Sin, 
Who,  some  one  said,  was  next  of  kin. 

And  is  this  desert  round  me  spread 

In  apprehension,  what  I  dread, 

To  be  alone,  alone,  alone, 

As  is  some  wandering  music-tone, 

Alone  above  the  lonely  sea 

That  hath  no  rest  in  being  free, 

And  ranging  through  eternity. 

Lo,  borne  forever  on  its  breast, 

The  baby-breakers  climb  its  crest, 

And  clap  their  hands,  and  shout  for  glee, 

Upon  thy  bosom,  Mother-Sea! 

Green  hills  that  touch  the  sunken  skies, 

That  rise  to  sink,  and  sink  to  rise; 

So  go  we  up  and  down  the  ocean, 

In  see-saw  of  eternal  motion. 


of    fon  J>6tecJ  "   "      '  ibi- 


My  thought  doth  waver  like  the  sea. 

I  wonder  what  it  is  to  be! 

Unless  our  seeing  is  in  vain, 

Being  and  seeing  are  not  twain, 

(This  overhanging  cloud  of  doubt 

Will  put  the  sun  of  being  out,) 

Not  twain,  but  twin  whose  bond  is  truth, 

And  fountain  of  Eternal  Youth. 

I  would  not  care  to  stand,  or  be 

In  a  great  noon  of  certainty; 

Chained  to  the  wave  that  meets  the  sky, 

One  bottomless,  wide-rolling  eye, 

Looked  in  the  face  by  suns  that  find 

Dead  water-levels  of  the  mind, 

A  thousand  sunsets  left  behind. 

Give  me  the  poetry  and  grace 

Of  evening,  or  a  morning  face  — 

The  planets  in  the  mind  that  roll 

Through  atmospheres  from  pole  to  pole, 

Which  make  the  twilight  of  the  soul. 

In  its  profound  the  stars  come  out, 

And  mountains  raise  their  heads  in  doubt. 

Thank  God  that  being  one  can  be 

A  miracle,  a  mystery. 

But  see!  the  setting  sun  of  life, 

Makes  shadows  there  of  man  and  wife. 

They  are  expressed  in  God  as  nought, 

(Expression  is  the  mask  of  thought,) 

And  crumble  back  to  something  vain, 

Part  of  the  dust  that  walks  the  plain; 

A  wave  that  comes  up  from  the  sea; 

Uncurls,  and  breaks,  —  a  moment  free. 


io2  emorial  Bolume 


THE   GREATEST   CURSE 

Of  curses  I  have  read,  and  not  a  few. 

The  church's  ban  with  bell,  book,  candle  bound, 
The  curse  of  excommunication  round 

One  rooted  to  the  spot  in  horror  new 

As  on  some  blasted  heath  a  stunted  yew. 
Within  the  lids  of  our  old  Bible  found 
The  most  tremendous  curse  of  all  'bove  ground, 

Was  long  since  launched  against  the  Wandering  Jew. 

But  yet  methinks  there  is  a  heavier  curse 
Denounced  as  coming,  or  as  come  on  what 
Horace  declared  an  evil  past  all  cure: 

As  when  he  said  of  mediocre  verse, 
It  was  such  poetry  as  truly  not 
Nor  gods  nor  men  nor  temples  could  endure! 

CULTURE 

Kingdom  of  uses  is  the  kingdom  good. 

And  all  our  learning  is  not  worth  a  pin 

If  human  culture  fails  at  last  to  win 
Both  light  and  leisure  to  the  man  who  would 
Improve  himself,  and  eke  the  world  that  stood 

Ages  of  darkness,  heathendom  and  sin. 

Candles  with  Christianity  came  in: 
That  gave  more  light  and  sense  of  brotherhood. 
It  is  not  safe  to  treat  your  neighbor  ill. 

All  waste  and  all  neglect  is  shameful  too. 

Our  globe  is  better  aired  and  lighted;  who 
That  has  the  arc  light,  wants  the  old  "dip"  still? 

What  in  future  civilized  men  may  do, 
They  will  not  ravage,  burn,  destroy  and  kill. 


of    ton  £atmr  103 


HIGH  WATER-MARK 

In  the  great  deep  of  feeling,  currents  main 
Traverse  all  moods  and  climates  of  the  soul, 
Over  the  dim  unsounded  depths  to  shoal 

In  thoughts  that  to  the  shores  of  speech  attain: 

Filling  the  earth  with  murmured  music-rain, 
Or  dashing  on  to  Silence's  mighty  mole, 
Fond  hearts  that  break  amid  the  breakers  roll 

When  some  great  passion  floods  both  heart  and  brain. 

But  yet  a  man  will  sooner  risk  his  bark 
Amid  the  boisterous  seas  of  passion  rude 
Than  idly  safe  in  port  and  anchor  ride. 

Better  the  flood  which  makes  high  water-mark 

Than  the  low  sea  that  crawls  with  no  wreck  strewed, 
A  stagnant  mere  without  wind,  moon  or  tide. 

CHINLEY  CHURN 

On  Eildon  Hill  an  unknown  hero  sleeps. 
And  with  him  buried  arms,  a  trophied  urn, 
Above  him  raised  the  pile  of  Chinley  Churn; 

From  whence  the  gazer  with  a  bold  eye  sweeps 

A  noble  country  where  the  castled  steeps 
Look  down  on  forest,  frith  and  river's  turn 
O'er  which  the  evening  skies  in  glory  burn, 

And  the  sad-colored  sky  of  Autumn  weeps. 

We  call  a  stone-heap  what  they  called  a  cairn. 
They  meant  it  for  a  monumental  pile, 

Cromlech  or  altar,  cairn  or  sculptured  stones. 

But  to  the  simple  superstitious  bairn, 

The  dead  complained,  and  so  they  said  erewhile, 
( 'Light  lie  the  turf  upon  his  honored  bones"! 


104  Memorial  Volume 

THE   WORLD'S   DEBT  TO  SCHOLARS 

The  world  owes  much  to  scholars;  and  the  debt 
Is  such  as  well  can  never  be  repaid; 
In  close  retirement  delving  in  the  shade 

Before  all  virtue  they  put  bars  of  sweat. 

Slaves  of  the  mine!  what  sparkling  jewels  yet, 
What  sunless  riches  as  of  suns  outrayed, 
King's  treasuries,  libraries,  museums,  trade, 

They've  brought  to  light,  and  in  full  glory  set. 

Two  noble  works  before  me  lie  outspread. 
One  is  the  "Buke"  of  Sir  John  Mandeville, 
"Writ  in  romance,"  and  englished  out  of  it. 

The  other  that  ancient  "Book  of  the  Dead" 
Whose  picture-writing  hieroglyphics  fill, 
Which,  to  decipher,  needs  a  famous  wit. 

CITY  AND   COUNTRY 

A  Didactic  Poem 

I 

O  fortunate  pilgrim  at  the  break  of  day 
Who  had,  then,  setting  out  on  life's  highway, 
Of  woodland  vistas  the  far  looking  through 
For  pillared  arch  and  long-drawn  avenue! 
What's  well  in  Luxor  and  Persepolis 
In  modern  cities  one  would  rather  miss; 
Unless  to  wander  in  midsummer's  wide 
Deserted  ways  at  midnight  there,  with  bride 
Of  silence  looking  through  the  foliage  far 
To  catch  the  twinkle  of  the  Evening  Star, 
And  feel  the  purple  pride  men  trample  on, 
Shall  be  as  Bagdad  or  as  Babylon. 


of       >n  £atoar  105 


But  where  no  jackals  prowl  nor  serpents  hiss, 

If  he  felicitate  himself  on  this, 

'Tis  not  so  much  that  solitude  is  sweet, 

Nor  harsh  to  him  the  thunder  of  the  street, 

As  feeling  in  the  hubbub  and  the  strife 

The  insecurity  of  human  life, 

And  seeing  in  those  all  converging  lines 

Where  the  web  city's  vast  concentric  shines, 

How  the  drawn  foot  deplores  in  every  way 

The  tendency  therein  to  go  astray, 

One  dreads  that  forest  of  enchantment,  hurled 

In  the  great  wood  of  error  of  this  world. 

Fraud  there  and  Folly  spin  their  separate  web 

For  silly  flies,  and  there  the  mighty  ebb 

And  flow  of  business  with  its  endless  roar 

Is  heard  like  ocean  on  a  surf-boat  shore. 

Lowell  in  London  heard  it,  and  sublime 

It  seemed  to  him  the  '  'roaring  loom  of  time" 

Forever  weaving  to  no  end  or  date, 

The  awful  web  of  crossing  wills  and  fate 

Whose  everlasting  clash  and  conflict  brings 

Up  Virgil's  '  'sense  of  tears  in  human  things." 

But  is  that  human  flux  and  reflux  more 

Impressive  by  its  dull,  continuous  roar 

Than  is  the  sight  and  presence  of  the  dread 

Supremacy  of  light  on  some  bald  head 

Of  heaven-high  battlements  with  their  great  shag 

From  base  to  summit  of  the  toppling  crag 

Which,  thunder-smitten,  is  forever  more 

Gray  with  the  ages'  everlasting  hoar? 

Cities  and  states  may  sink  in  their  own  slime 

Along  the  littoral  —  ruins  of  old  Time, 


106  emorial  Volume 


But  these  remain,  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 

Two  things  that  have  been  and  shall  always  be; 

Though  changing  place,  as  witness  eke  the  strong 

Weird  in  some  old  forgotten  ballad  song: 

'  'For  waters  shall  wax  and  woods  shall  wane, 

Hill  and  moss  shall  be  torn  in, 

But  the  bannock  shall  never  be  braider" 

No  place  is  where  vicissitude  is  not, 

But  love  and  hunger  ear  the  human  lot. 

As  rivers  vary  in  their  speed  and  force, 

So  human  passions  in  their  headlong  course; 

But  none  the  less,  as  wisdom  erst  foresaw, 

Their  terms  and  quantities  are  fixed  by  law. 

One  Power  sets  limits  to  the  wandering  foam, 

French  Revolution  and  the  Fall  of  Rome. 

What  seems  more  permanent  than  the  mountain  head? 

And  yet  it  crumbles  like  a  loaf  of  bread. 

All  things  are  molded  in  a  manner,  so 

The  marble  made  is  plastic  as  the  dough. 

Dost  thou  remember,  man,  the  johnny-cake 

Which  our  good  mothers  used  erstwhile  to  bake? 

To  Indian  meal  and  water  mixed  and  scalt 

To  bake  before  the  fire,  add  pinch  of  salt, 

And  there's  the  bannock  which  old  wives  afford 

As  it  came  smoking  hot  from  off  the  board, 

Which  eaten  with  fresh  butter  did,  with  routh 

Of  maple  syrup,  fairly  melt  'n  the  mouth. 

This  was  a  dish  in  old  New  England  days 

Which  any  epicure  might  justly  praise; 

And  Joel  Barlow's  '  'Hasty  Pudding"  is 

Not  to  be  mentioned  any  day  with  this  ! 

But  here  my  homely  illustration,  sooth, 

Is  peg  to  hang  an  economic  truth. 


ffioemg  of  ffirfjn  £afratp 107 

You  cannot  have  your  cake  and  eat  it,  too, 

And  hunger's  law  which  even  has  to  do 

With  wearing  tides  still  the  land  invade, 

Is  not  more  constant  than  the  course  of  trade. 

Aye,  waters  shall  wax  and  woods  shall  wane, 

And  what  you  lose  will  another  gain, 

But  the  bannock  shall  never  be  braider. 

Who  dreams  of  larger  bakers'  loaves  iwis 

Reckons  without  the  host  of  avarice. 

More  deep  and  strong  almost  than  human  need 

The  grip  of  custom  and  the  grasp  of  greed. 

Of  course,  the  country  will  outlive  the  town, 

But  will  it  live  to  put  monopoly  down? 

Not  till  the  farmers  learn  like  sturdy  sons 

Of  toil  so  stand  embattled  by  their  guns. 

And  strength  they  have  but  not  yet  eyes  to  see 

And  arms  to  strike  the  entrenched  enemy. 

Some  day  perchance  when  they  shall  organize 

The  People's  party,  a  new  morn  will  rise 

On  the  midnoon  of  our  prosperity. 

The  dollar  mark  on  all  things  set  to  see, 

In  business  battles  then,  will  but  enhance 

The  strife  where  all  men  have  an  equal  chance. 

And  none  shall  lack  the  necessary  fee 

Of  labor  lost  for  superfluity. 

The  battle  will  be  when  are  seen  arrayed 

The  sons  of  toil  against  the  sons  of  trade. 

Let  those  determine  in  the  world's  folk-mote 

The  cost  of  the  world's  breakfast,  corn  or  oat — 

Meal,  if  the  johnny-cake  be  good,  then,  eat, 

And  trade  will  soon  adjust  the  balance-sheet. 

But  middlemen  like  millers,  toll  will  take, 

A  measure  from  the  mouth  of  mealsack,  make 


108  ftemorial  Volume 


The  bannock  broader  only  for  the  thief, 

(Fide  the  Miller's  tale  in  Chaucer,  chief), 

And  so  the  farmer  still  will  come  to  grief. 

The  "grangers,"  aye,  a  most  respectable  class, 

Have  borne  their  burden  like  the  patient  ass; 

They,  when  the  tithe  and  the  tax-gatherer  come 

Like  sheep  before  the  shearer  still  are  dumb. 

But  will  it  be  so  in  the  land  at  length 

When  they  shall  come  to  know  and  use  their  strength  ? 

Which  organized  and  drilled  and  trained  might  be 

To  throttle  trusts  and  starve  monopoly. 

Considering  how  the  world's  support  indeed, 

Depends  upon  the  shooting  of  a  seed, 

Who  have  the  seed  to  sow,  and  hence  prepare 

Must  in  their  way  the  world's  chief  burden  bear. 

Yet  the  desertion  of  the  cot  and  mill, 

Of  farm  and  homestead  for  the  shop  and  till 

Is  the  marked  tendency  of  modern  days, 

And  augurs  ill  for  the  Republic's  ways. 

Look  at  those  towns  which,  as  it  well  appears, 

Have  stationary  stood  an  hundred  years. 

The  land  stagnates,  and  then  the  popular  curse 

Deterioration  makes  the  matter  worse. 

The  old  hill  towns  of  their  New  England  clan 

And  farms  abandoned  almost  to  a  man 

Deserted  are,  in  consequence  you  find 

The  dregs  of  population  left  behind. 

A  frightful  state  of  morals  supervenes 

On  heathenism  such  as  thereto  leans, 

Of  which  one  feature  is  the  female  mind 

In  solitude  and  isolation  pined, 

Leading,  where  wreck  of  womanhood  survives, 

To  much  insanity  among  farmers'  wives. 


of    ^N  J>afcar  109 


From  personal  knowledge  yet  I  cannot  say 

If  these  things  be,  but  well  indeed  they  may. 

As  the  old  English  stock  is  lessening,  so 

Increasing  see  the  proletariat  grow. 

Old  neighbors  living  on  the  road  or  pike 

Give  way  to  foreign  faces  and  dislike. 

Swedish  and  Finnish,  French  and  Irish  hands 

Hold  the  fee  simple  now  of  house  and  lands. 

The  cattle  and  their  owners  supersede 

A  nobler  by  a  meaner  race  and  breed. 

The  country  slipping  back  to  wildness  turns, 

The  pastures  grow  thorn  bushes,  brake  and  ferns. 

The  stone-heap  is  a  mass  of  matted  vines, 

The  gate-post  leans,  the  parasite  entwines, 

And  by  the  gap-toothed  gray  stone  wall  one  sees 

A  stunted  row  of  ancient  apple  trees. 

The  sumach  in  the  fall  appears  to  smoke, 

And  clings  the  grapevine  to  the  doddered  oak. 

In  glebe  and  upland  for  good  grazing  fair, 

Were  arable  lands  which  now  white  birches  bear. 

The  foxtail  once  that  plumed  th'  embankment  wall 

Is  choked  with  weeds,  and  the  short  mowing  all 

That  green  and  bowery  in  the  summer  shone 

With  spruce  and  hemlock  now  is  overgrown. 

A  pump  stands  where  the  open  well  once  stood 

Under  the  sky,  the  water  then  was  good. 

The  meadow  brook  with  its  flower'd  border  rich 

Is  nothing  else  now  but  a  stagnant  ditch. 

And  the  vine  withers,  stem  and  branch  whose  trail 

Along  the  wall  hangs  by  a  rusty  nail; 

The  rose-bush,  too,  which  taps  the  window  pane, 

Looks  for  each  old  familiar  face  in  vain: 


no  temorial  Volume 


It  seems  discouraged,  and  like  all  things  fair 
Will  flourish  only  in  congenial  air. 

Where  are  the  old  folks?     Ask  the  burying-ground 
For  their  memorial  by  each  grassy  mound. 
Or  ask  the  lilac  bush  that  stood  before 
Their  pleasant  homes  and  cottages  of  yore. 
Lo  there,  the  cellar  hole  whose  mournful  story 
Is,  in  that  "smoke  of  earth"  called  fumitory; 
Told  by  remains  of  the  old  chimney  stack 
With  burdock,  weeds  and  nettles  in  a  pack; 
Where  night  winds  sigh,  and  sighing  overpass 
The  blackened  rafter  lying  in  the  grass. 
And  there  is  heart-break  in  the  wind  that  waves 
The  grass  above  this  land  of  household  graves. 
The  stout  old  apple-tree  alone  remains, 
But  sour  and  crabbed  in  his  knurly  veins, 
Not  as  of  old  his  branching  top  and  tall 
Which  loaded  took  the  "slantin'  light  o'  fall;" 
Cornwallis  then  was,  and  like  strain  and  stress 
Of  martial  virtue  flowed  the  cider-press; 
Great  heaps  of  apples  lay  upon  the  ground, 
The  urchins  came,  old  dobbin  went  around 
The  tan-bark  circle,  and  the  rollers  wreak 
A  vengeance  on  the  pippin  as  they  squeak; 
The  farmer  brought  his  apples  to  the  mill, 
And  the  wise  deacon,  then,  who  owned  the  still, 
When  every  wife  put  cider  in  mince  pies, 
Had  in  his  orchard  aye  a  noble  prize:  — 
Now,  blighted  fruit,  the  worm  is  at  the  core, 
The  orchard  gone  with  cider-mill  of  yore  - 
The  picturesque  of  landscape  is  no  more! 


of    ^tt  £abar  111 


CITY  AND   COUNTRY 

A  Didactic  Poem 

II 

What  hope  for  youth  whose  native  country  drains 

Its  health  and  strength,  its  energy  and  brains 

In  mammon  service  and  the  greedy  maw 

Of  city  trade  and  corporation  law? 

See  mountainous  wealth  o'ertopping  to  beslime 

What  gulfs  of  poverty,  wretchedness  and  crime! 

Here  luxury  lolls  upon  its  cushioned  seat 

Of  triumph  o'er  the  beggar  on  the  street. 

The  cars  that  rattle  with  their  own  feet 

In  brutal  disregard  of  all  they  meet 

Are  not  more  ruthless  than  the  Powers  that  grind 

Forever  on  youth's  budding  hopes  and  blind, 

And  which  to  trampled  hearts  in  that  wine-press 

Contrast  the  ruin  and  the  wretchedness 

With  Nature's  old  elm-shadowed  homestead  farm, 

And  all  the  country's  lost  idyllic  charm. 

Life  that  descends  from  mountain  peaks  of  rose 

To  the  dead  level  of  the  dullest  prose 

Is  his,  exchanging  for  a  woodland  dress 

The  city's  waste  and  howling  wilderness. 

Not  bred  on  Russian  steppes  nor  barren  moor 

The  pack  of  wolves  that  hunt  the  city  poor. 

Sometimes  they  hunt,  alas,  it  should  be  so,  — 

A  Spenser,  Collins,  Chatterton  or  Poe! 

Of  all  sad  things,  the  saddest  on  this  earth 

The  tragedy  of  genius  is  from  birth. 

But  leaving  this,  as  no  man  can  divine 

The  reason  why  such  pearls  are  cast  to  swine, 


112  emorial  Bolume 


Take  the  raw  youth  from  country  come  to  town, 
Lured  by  big  fees  and  prospect  of  renown. 
Fooled  by  illusion,  forward-looking  Hope 
To  young  Ambition  offers  boundless  scope. 
There  is  a  crowd  to  hinder  and  to  stop, 
But  always  room,  they  tell  him,  at  the  top. 
He  looks  again  into  his  heart  and  reads, 
"The  many  fail,  but  still  the  one  succeeds." 
Ah,  but  my  friend,  who  knows  if  you're  the  one 
Whom  glory  calls,  ambition's  chosen  son? 
Suppose,  at  last,  you  have  attained  the  prize, 
At  what  a  cost!  —  all  satisfaction  dies. 
To  pay  for  sitting  on  a  worldly  throne, 
Toil,  torture,  heart-break,  life  itself  a  groan! 

But  now,  suppose  our  country  youth  installed 

In  some  town  office,  he  is  gibed  and  galled; 

As  time  goes  on,  he  pines  in  discontent, 

He  had  not  counted  an  environment. 

For  rural  sights  and  sounds  and  moonlit  glades, 

What  are  the  city's  broken  lights  and  shades? 

There  first,  familiar  as  the  morning  street, 

The  plodding  merchant  at  his  balance-sheet; 

The  store's  long  counter,  and  trade's  knight-errant, 

The  saucy  waiter  at  the  restaurant; 

The  tired  shop  girl,  the  seamstress  poor  and  proud 

Making  a  sister's  bridal  robe  or  shroud; 

The  gouty  rich  man's  red  Burgundian  wine, 

The  labor  union,  and  the  turn-verein; 

Throw  in,  of  course,  the  theatre  and  the  ball, 

And  add  the  siren  of  the  music-hall; 

Statues  and  paintings,  letters,  arts,  the  case  is 

Where  literature  is  on  a  business  basis, 


of     ofjn  £atoar  113 


The  publisher  who  builds  his  House  of  Fame 

On  the  commercial  value  of  a  name, 

Must  take  for  granted  the  diviner  spark 

Of  poesy  branded  by  the  dollar  mark. 

He  knows  what's  what,  and  to  compose  in  rhyme 

A  misdemeanor,  poetry  a  crime; 

Or  if  not  that,  'tis  heresy  and  schism, 

Flat  treason  to  the  state  commercialism 

Which  rules  the  roost,  and  relegates  all  verse 

To  rhyming  punsters,  like  Hood's  "prose  and  worse," 

The  stale  of  editors  who  jest  at  "beans" 

And  verses  made  to  chink  the  magazines. 

Because  there  are  no  Miltons  left,  men  smile 

At  poets,  or  poeticules;  meanwhile 

The  reader  quenches  at  his  daily  toil 

A  thousand  lamps  of  the  burned  midnight  oil: 

And  yet  what  endless  reams  of  written  slosh 

Where  every  paper  pours  its  boundless  bosh, 

And  he  whose  labors  on  the  cold  types  wait, 

Bound  to  a  wheel  of  fire,  Ixion's  fate, 

Is  of  all  trades  the  first  in  that  huge  wen, 

Type  of  a  world  of  cities  and  of  men 

Who  live  in  crowds  to  die  at  last  alone. 

Few  note  his  passing,  and  his  latest  moan 

Disturbs  not  his  successor  at  the  case, 

Who  must  keep  up  the  same  terrific  pace, 

His  intellect  a  tool,  his  heart  a  stone, 

A  soul  to  justice  and  to  pity  blind, 

While     cant    and    catch-words    fill    his    mouth    and 

mind; 

Case-hardened  wretch  in  ignorance  as  great 
As  paper  walls  make  his  the  cocoon's  fate 
To  die  imprisoned,  and,  a  grub  to  date, 


114 fficmotial  Bcrfume 

Strive  as  he  may,  and  hustle  as  he  can 

To  do  his  duty  like  a  little  man, 

He  never  can  catch  up,  nor  put  a  stop 

To  that  which  rolls  and  rolls,  and  from  the  top 

Goes  like  the  wind  regardless,  and  amain 

Is  heaved  uphill  to  thunder  down  again. 

Another  spills  his  life  about  the  club, 

Or,  a  Diogenes  of  the  town  and  tub, 

Scorns  wealth  and  fashion,  mocks  at  beauty  vain, 

Condemns  all  trades,  and  all  men  rogues  in-grain, 

Makes  no  exception,  being  one  and  all 

The  slaves  of  circumstance,  occupation's  thrall, 

A  starved  flower-life  within  a  crannied  wall. 

What  chance  has  beauty  to  be  seen  or  felt 

Where  lives  are  barren  as  the  karroo's  veldt? 

Are  river  waters  sweeter  for  the  drains 

Of  a  great  city  with  its  feculent  stains  ? 

Or  breathing  airs  more  pure  for  sooty  pall 

Of  coal-smoke  banners  trailing  over  all? 

Where  commerce  murmurs  in  the  busy  hive 

With  thoughts  of  gain  in  every  breast  alive, 

Around  their  hearts  can  charity  entwine 

Where  men  are  hustled  like  the  hustling  swine? 

Can  they  who  only  grovel  there  and  grope, 

Cherish  ideals  and  a  boundless  hope? 

Can  pure  religion  in  the  world  befriend 

The  man  a  muckrake  to  a  sordid  end? 

Can  love  of  country  ever  rooted  grow 

In  stony  streets,  or  thrive  in  Rotten  Row? 

Soul  must  take  root  in  nature,  born  to  share 

The  boundless  ether,  and  as  pilgrim  fare 

In  the  Blue  Distance  without  stay  or  stop, 

The  vast  horizon  of  the  mountain  top, 


of    ^fjn  £abar  115 


Not  that  wherefrom  one  sees  the  starry  fleet 

In  the  deep  canon  of  a  midnight  street; 

Or  in  that  heaven  to  her  still  under  ban, 

Of  sad  significance  to  the  courtezan 

Standing  at  midnight  on  a  bridge  of  stone, 

Who  sees  the  burning  lamps  in  heaven  that  shone 

Far  round  the  bay  that  mirrors  heaven  to  her 

Become  the  foot-lights  of  a  theatre, 

The  painted  stage  of  meretricious  art; 

Dazed  by  the  cruel  lights  that  on  her  heart 

Shrink  to  a  glare  of  endless  gas-jets  bright, 

A  fiery  serpent  winding  out  of  sight 

In  the  black  hollow  heart  of  the  great  town; 

O  Heaven!  the  lid  of  sorrow  shutting  down, 

Black  Melancholia  comes  to  blast  and  blight 

As  in  that  city  clept  of  Dreadful  Night; 

Or  even  as  Dante  once  the  domes  of  Dis 

(More  hospitable,  one  thinks,  than  may  be  this)  ! 

Red  rising  saw,  where  one  confronted  is 

With  selfish  grandeur's  stony  mark  and  stir 

Of  Pride  blaspheming  its  red  sepulchre. 

The  Bridewell  of  a  world  of  souls  is  there 

If  not  for  punishment,  for  probation  where? 

One  to  the  Senate  goes,  another  while 

Drunk  and  disorderly  goes  to  the  rock-pile; 

A  workhouse  here  for  corrigible  churls, 

And  there  a  home  for  dissipated  girls. 

How  much  trade  morals  and  indecent  haste 
To  get  rich  have  debauched  the  public  taste! 
What  are  these  trusts  that  all  men's  rights  invade 
But  upas  trees  that  threaten  to  o'ershade 
And  blight  the  world  of  enterprise  and  trade! 


116  emorial  Bolume 


The  dreadful  plant  of  evil  all  can  see, 
But  not  the  axe  laid  at  root  of  the  tree. 
Not  Vergil's  hind  the  felled  oak  falling  more 
Vast  by  avulsion  set  the  hills  a-roar, 
Than  will  the  chopper  who  shall  undertake 
That  tree  whose  downfall  half  the  world  can  shake! 
Lo,  where  the  multi-millionaire  encamps, 
He  leaves  a  wandering  horde  of  worthless  tramps. 
"Jeshurun  waxed  fat  and  kicked;"  it  may  be  then 
Men  look  for  change  and  overturnings  when 
Too  much  prosperity  leads  the  merry  dance 
Of  drunken  revelers  at  the  land's  Last  Chance; 
And  chance  it  may  that  sometime  there  the  Fates 
May  change  post-horses  for  post-obit  dates. 
Whatever  happens  in  the  world  of  trade, 
Despite  the  midnight  raider  and  the  raid, 
The  bandit  trust,  this  modern  Claude  Duval 
Who  robs  the  state  and  makes  the  law  his  pal, 
All  things  by  nature  strongest  in  the  strong 
Refuse  to  be  mismanaged  overlong. 
Let  cities  have,  though  magnates  miss  a  pull, 
Both  civic  courage  and  municipal. 
And  since  bad  men  are  banded  for  ill  deeds, 
Why  not  the  good,  where  good  as  oft  succeeds  ? 
There  is  a  communism  of  power  and  pelf 
In  organization  which  betrays  itself. 
And  this  betrayal  in  a  manner  must 
Succeed  in  undermining  any  trust, 
Or  wicked  combination  using  laws 
Bad  for  the  state  and  for  the  people's  cause. 
The  scholar,  too,  in  politics  will  fight 
Well   armed   with   Goethe's   watchword   here,    "More 
light!" 


of     cn  £afcar  117 


Let  him  drag  forth  the  evil  thing  by  dint 

Of  pitiless  publicity  to  stand  in  print. 

When  men  once  read  and  ponder  on  the  fact 

Of  what  is  done,  they  will  know  how  to  act. 

Bad  men  prefer  most  any  other  box 

To  being  pilloried  in  the  public  stocks. 

Responsibility  if  you  can  fix, 

No  fury,  then,  of  partisan  politics 

Obscures  the  light  of  purification's  beam 

In  what  one  called  "an  iridescent  dream." 

But  since  the  world  demands  of  all  who  know 

Sweetness  and  light,  the  power  to  touch  and  go 

Over  the  tops  and  apices  of  things, 

Come  to  the  fountain-head  and  at  the  springs 

Of  life  and  action,  seek  but  to  disclose 

What  from  the  root  of  true  distinction  grows. 

If  one  would  seek  the  characteristic  trait 

Of  town  and  country  life,  discriminate. 

As  Beauty's  feast  of  roses  is  not  feast 

Of  thistles  for  the  munching  Blatant  Beast, 

So  neither  can  good  taste  accept  the  type 

In  mind  and  morals  of  the  rotten-ripe. 

As  wildness  grows  in  country  pasture  downs, 

The  contrary  eke  in  cities  and  in  towns; 

Look  at  the  wilted  fruit  the  market  kills; 

'  'No  innocent  blueberry  ever  left  the  hills 

For  Boston  yet,"  said  once  the  quaint  Thoreau. 

But  the  wild  strawberry,  if  the  reader  know, 

It  has  a  flavor  which  the  tamer  fruit 

Will  never  come  to,  though  it  may  not  suit 

A  city  palate,  and  this  difference  clear 

In  moral  taste  and  tone  and  atmosphere, 


118  memorial  Volume 

Is  just  the  difference  which  a  man  sets  down 

Betwixt  the  rustic  tang  and  tamer  town. 

No  more  alike  than  is  the  city  mode 

To  country  fashion,  or  the  grass-grown  road 

That  shows  me  here  a  wild  flower  once  that  grew 

In  Winthrop's  Journal,  which  I  pluck  for  you. 

When  Winthrop's  venture  by  good  fortune  ran 

To  land  his  company  upon  Cape  Ann, 

Ripened  in  June  against  their  coming,  lo, 

A  great  profusion  of  fine  strawberries,  so 

After  their  long  sea-voyage,  and  the  dry 

Remainder  biscuit  with  fat  pork  to  fry, 

Women  and  children  hasting  in  accord 

Go  fall  upon  their  knees  and  thank  the  Lord 

For  His  provision  of  that  luscious  fruit 

To  which  the  old  divine  preferred  his  suit 

In  that  God  might  have  made  a  better,  hid 

In  grass  than  strawberry,  though  he  never  did; 

Perchance  there  was  in  that  ship's  company  then 

Among  the  women  and  the  coarser  men 

Some  puritan  lover's  young  ideal,  dream 

Of  maid  with  cheeks  like  strawberry  in  cream, 

And  all  the  better  if  the  cream  were  iced, 

And  fruit  retained  a  tang  of  virtue  spiced; — 

And  so,  to  bring  the  parallel  further  down 

Betwixt  the  taste  of  country  and  of  town, 

I  match  the  puritan  maid  where  strawberries  grew 

'Gainst  golden  girl,  Belle  of  Fifth  Avenue. 

From  off  the  berry  brushed  is  gone  that  fine 

Exceeding  flavor  like  some  rare  old  wine. 

And  this  is  somewhat  to  be  noted,  then, 

As  time  obliterates  all  distinction  when 


of    Ptrfn  ^atoar  119 


The  traveled  folk  in  going  up  and  down, 
In  country  places  carry  still  the  town; 
Observe  the  women's  scent  for  fashions  warm 
At  railroad  stations  on  the  wide  platform; 
The  Governor's  daughter  is  no  better  drest 
Than  the  mechanic's  or  the  farmer's  best 
In  bib  and  tucker  late  from  boarding  school, 
With  her  piano  and  her  music  stool. 
The  web  of  life  is  woven  still  perforce 
Of  all  the  strands  of  human  intercourse. 
As  people  buy  their  clothing  ready-made, 
They  take  opinions,  too,  and  tools  of  trade 
From  those  who  manufacture  both  in  shop. 
Where  does  the  influence  of  the  city  stop  ? 
As  the  great  whirlpool  in  its  vortex  draws 
Whatever  comes  in  current  of  its  cause, 
So  does  the  country  feel  this  drawing  down 
In  all  things  tending  to  the  populous  town. 
The  Farmer's  Year  through  every  day  and  hour 
Adds  to  predominance  of  its  wealth  and  power, 
As  each  subscriber  at  the  regular  rate 
Helps  to  maintain  the  flourishing  Fourth  Estate. 

So,  have  I  struck  at  last  the  well-worn  trail 
That  leads  me  home,  and  if  my  art  prevail 
To  shoot  an  arrow  straight,  in  manner,  sooth, 
Through  twelve  ranged  axes  in  the  eye  of  truth! 
Why  then,  so  be  it,  though  the  reader  rail 
And  swear  as  oil  and  water  will  not  mix, 
So  neither  poetry  and  politics. 
But  never  none  of  these  things  move  me,  no 
Appealing  to  the  shade  of  Edgar  Poe! 


120  emorial  Bolume 


To  Wordsworth,  rather,  who  gave  ten  hours,  he 

To  politics  for  one  to  poetry. 

For  every  writer  knows  who  has  a  true 

Divining  instinct  when  he  holds  a  clue 

That  leads  directly  to  the  door  of  truth; 

And  he  remembers  reading  in  his  youth 

That  Truth  and  Poetry  dwelt  in  sweet  accord 

Under  one  roof,  and  Beauty  was  their  lord. 

But  I  must  mind  my  business  here  to  seek 

The  true  solution  of  a  problem,  pique 

My  reader's  judgment  and  his  honest  doubt 

To  find  the  marrow  of  the  subject  out. 

But  as  for  politics  no  need  to  'ware 

The  dragging  in  what  is  already  there. 

And  when  the  Surgeon  will  dissect,  no  fear 

But  he  will  lay  the  scalpel  rightly  —  here! 

Now,  the  biologist  discovers  well 

The  naked  germ,  the  protoplasmic  cell 

Of  life  that  gropes  and  grows  and  germinates 

The  ruling  power  of  cities  and  of  states; 

Regarding  which  the  ovum  is  not  laid 

In  City  Councils,  or  in  Boards  of  Trade; 

The  formal  matter,  spirit,  life  and  dress 

Of  cities  is  in  their  Newspaper  Press. 

And  going  here  to  fountain  head  and  mart 

Of  honor  and  of  profit,  thence  outstart 

Soldiers  of  fortune,  as  the  time  affords, 

Who  sell  their  pens,  as  erst  they  sold  their  swords. 

They  are  the  Hessians  of  all  causes  fought 

By  these  Free  Lances  in  the  field  of  thought. 

Bold  and  unscrupulous  ever  in  debate, 

You  see  him  there  the  devil's  advocate; 


of     ofjn  £afoar  121 


Though  wrapt  in  endless  toil  of  wordy  care 

On  every  page,  the  hoof  and  horns  are  there. 

With  fine  Socratic  irony  and  pause, 

Another  champions  the  better  cause. 

But  neither  will  forego  reward  for  this, 

Beside  the  gaudia  certaminis. 

So  let  me  catch  of  the  uncertain,  dim, 

Or  ere  the  features  of  this  cloud  dislimn 

What  I  observe  to  tell  how  spirits  come 

And  shape  that  moving  cloud,  newspaperdom. 

I  can  but  sketch  in  very  brief  outline 

The  general  movement,  and  for  that,  in  fine 

I  draw,  albeit  with  a  watery  pen, 

The  lives  and  characters  of  a  class  of  men, 

Who  have,  chameleon-like  in  hue  and  tone, 

No  will  and  no  opinions  of  their  own; 

But  what  their  masters  want,  they  will  supply; 

Somehow  they  live,  and  O  Lord,  how  they  lie! 

I  beg  your  pardon,  gentlemen,  purvey, 

And  somewhat  given  to  romancing,  heigh? 

In  master  Vergil's  sketch  of  Common  Fame, 

Behold  at  once  their  glory  and  their  shame. 

Newspaper  faking  is  the  vice  express 
Of  cities  laid  to  reader's  idleness. 
It  is  a  trade,  a  business  like  the  rest, 
Which  gives  to  life  a  certain  sort  of  zest, 
But  ah,  it  withers  like  Sirocco's  touch 
And  some  the  Boer  in  South  Africa; 
Some  the  Sierras  and  Andean  nooks, 
And  some  like  Kipling  in  his  Jungle  Books; 
Some  are  pearl-divers  and  gold-seekers,  fain 
Of  Solomon's  Mines  and  Alan  Quatermain. 


122  lemonal  Volume 


But  in  a.  general  way,  like  ospreys  then, 

They  fish  for  news,  these  hardy  fishermen. 

Observe  their  dragnet  cast,  how  well  it  thrives  ! 

At  every  throw  they  scoop  a  million  lives! 

They  live  by  "scoops"  and  taking  in  their  ten 

The  one  supreme  and  valuable  asset 

Of  all  their  readers'  yet  remaining  time 

To  finish  tasks  in,  humble  or  sublime. 

Not  theirs  for  men  the  poets'  "winged  words" 

Like  fruitful  seeds  far-sown  by  singing-birds, 

But  just  one  dreary  and  monotonous  waste 

Of  words,  words,  words,  Sahara  to  the  taste. 

You     who     have     work     to     do,     leave     these     Bad 

Lands, 

To  plodders  in  immeasurable  sands, 
Who  face  the  desert  and  the  red  simoom 
For  gold  and  merchandise,  and  let  the  spoom 
Of  earth  pass  over,  lying  low,  good  bye! 
The  mirage  of  the  desert  shows  the  eye 
Smooth  liquid  lakes  and  clusters  of  palm-trees, 
Verdure  and  freshness  and  the  blowing  breeze. 
The  flower  of  mind  that  trusts  it  overmuch. 
The  vulgar  world  is  of  the  vulgar  sheet, 
The  tone,  the  voice,  the  echo  of  the  street. 
To  read  it  is  to  hear  loud  voices  start 
From  every  corner  of  the  public  mart. 
From  mouth  to  mouth  the  tale  of  wonder  flies 
In  the  crammed  cars  and  to  the  bulging  eyes. 
And  when  there's  nothing,  then  at  nothing  laugh, 
For  lo,  '  'the  light-outspeeding  telegraph 
Bears  nothing  on  its  beam  that  you  can  scan." 
Day  unto  day  adds  knowledge  as  it  can 
Of  weakness,  vice  and  littleness  in  man. 


of    tof     J>atoar  123 


But  why  make  this  of  mind  the  daily  ration 

And  leave  the  nobler  part  of  contemplation? 

It  is  the  reader's  fault  if  he  conspire 

With  other  wasters  of  his  time,  and  dire 

The  consequence  to  him  who  only  reads 

Line  after  line  as  wave  on  wave  suceeds 

Monotonous,  of  Ocean's  endless  smile 

And  its  no-meaning  to  each  liquid  mile. 

But  wander  down  and  far  along  the  shore 

Where  these  men  keep  their  implements  and  store, 

And  there  is  romance  and  adventure  then, 

Soldiers  of  fortune?  yes,  Bohemian. 

Some  hunt  the  lion  and  the  jaguar, 

But  though  in  these  wide  wastes  of  print  there  are 

Oases  in  the  desert,  one  goes  far 

To  swing  a  hammock  in  a  shady  nook, 

Absorb  mint-juleps  and  a  charming  book. 

Escaped  the  peril,  candor  bids  me  own 

That  there  are  papers  of  high  moral  tone, 

Broad  and  impartial  views,  and  critiques  quite 

Free  from  all  rancor,  and  mere  personal  spite. 

Trees  by  their  fruits,  and  grains  by  acreage, 

But  judging  papers  by  their  parentage, 

They  do  small  credit  to  their  owners'  hand, 

Still  less  to  the  towns  and  cities  of  the  land. 

Are  they  much  better  than  in  days  gone  by, 

When  Dickens  gave  them  a  blackened  eye? 

It  is  their  boast  to  give  in  every  clime, 

The  very  age  and  body  of  the  time. 

And  so,  unless  the  times  are  better,  how 

Can  they  be  better  which  reflect  them  now? 

'Tis  even  worse  when  they  contribute  to 

Those  chief  disorders  they  inflame  and  woo. 


124  jftemorial  Bolume 

Here  Horace  warns  me  that  I  must  not  tread 
On  dolorous  ash  of  smouldering  fires  yet  red. 
The  newspaper  contains,  or  should  do,  say, 
The  history  of  the  globe  for  one  full  day. 
But  since  it  covers  not  a  millionth  part 
Of  mankind's  doings,  all  its  patchwork  art 
And  enterprise  amounts  to,  is  the  spilt 
Contents  resembling  most  a  crazy-quilt, 
Where  each  contributor  puts  in  a  patch, 
But  figures,  forms  and  colors  hardly  march. 
And  so,  the  indictment  justly  framed  on  this, 
Of  the  most  popular  newspaper  is, 
It  rates  the  intelligence  of  its  readers  as 
That  of  mere  children  and  of  savages. 
The  snipperty-snapperty  itemizing  press, 
The  shreds  and  purple  patches  in  its  dress, 
Are  all  intended  here  to  catch  the  eye, 
Like  Sunday's  colored  supplements,  but  why 
This  vulgar  horse-play  and  mere  idiocy? 
The  reason  totters,  intellect  retreats 
At  sight  of  all  these  penny-dreadful  sheets. 
Some  in  the  vastness  of  their  vacuity 
Lack  all  coherence  and  just  continuity. 
One  reads  and  reads  but  seldom  ever  meets 
Embodied  thought,  but  ghostly  winding-sheets 
Made  out  of  words  voluminous  and  vast 
Like  winter  snowflakes  falling  thick  and  fast, 
Until  the  mind  is  buried  fathoms  deep 
Beneath  the  torpor  of  benumbing  sleep. 
But  here's  the  wonder  of  all  words,  confess 
The  modern  marvel  of  Hoe's  printing-press! 
It  is  debatable  if  the  art  has  still 
Been  more  productive  here  of  good  than  ill. 


of     ofm  £atoar  125 


Johannes  Fust  and  Gutenberg  were  both 

Responsible  it  seems,  and  nothing  loath 

To  help  it  forward,  one  with  brains  therefor, 

And  one  with  needed  sinews  of  the  war. 

But  though  Krupp's  cannon  in  effect  may  change 

The  map  of  empire,  'tis  not  half  so  strange 

And  potent  in  its  working  with  times  ripe 

For  revolution  as  the  leaded  type. 

And  you'll  agree  with  Hosea  Biglow, 

Who  knew  some  things,  and  how  to  put  them  too 

He  found  regarding  both  as  types  of  change, 

'Twas  Gutenberg's  gun  that  had  the  longer  range. 

But  to  the  men  behind  the  guns,  not  I 

Nor  any  other  man  not  prone  to  lie, 

Will  ever  shout  defiance  to  the  foe, 

"Blaze  with  your  serried  columns!"    -  no,  no,  no. 

In  ancient  Athens  law  and  custom  chid 

Bean-shooters  aye  at  owls  who  lived  forbid. 

The  bird  of  wisdom,  courage  and  good  cheer 

Inspired  the  populace  with  religious  fear, 

But  they  like  moderns  had  diviners  then, 

To  take  full  charge  of  all  state  secrets,  men 

Forever  on  the  hatch  and  brood,  you  know 

The  nidification  of  Newspaper  Row. 

But  what  the  law  forbade  in  Athens  to 

Those  same  Owls'  Nests,  you  likewise  mustn't  do. 

Hunt  every  bird  except  the  sacred  fowl, 

But  spare  the  home  and  haunt  of  Inky  Owl! 

He  has  a  curious  habit,  by  the  way 

Not  unobserved,  of  turning  night  to  day. 

Nor  can  he  give  old  Breton's  reason  dark 

For  playing  owl,  who  had  been  bred  a  lark. 


126 J&emoriat  Volume 

He  rises  not,  nor  singeth  in  the  dawn, 

But  goes  to  bed,  then,  till  the  light  is  gone; 

And  in  his  dreams  he  hopes  to  get  redress 

For  fancied  wrongs  by  vengeance  of  the  press. 

His  midnight  sun  is  the  electric  ray, 

Whose  glary  globe  usurps  the  lamp  of  day. 

And  long  ere  sunrise  news  to  him  will  come 

From  every  capital  in  Christendom. 

For  all  the  world  now  being  strung  with  wire, 

He  plays  upon  the  earth  as  on  a  lyre; 

The  politician  tells  his  tale  of  woe, 

To  him  the  merchant  and  stock-broker  go; 

In  short,  he  sits  the  monarch  of  the  sphere 

Within  his  den,  a  Dionysius'  Ear. 

All  men  by  habit,  whether  bond  or  free, 

Seek  to  propitiate  the  powers  that  be; 

And  those  who  rule  men's  thoughts  at  every  hour 

May  justly  claim  to  be  the  ruling  power, 

Sovereign  in  all  things  here  from  sea  to  sea, 

Whoever  holds  the  nominal  sovereignty. 

We  live  beneath  a  government  of  laws; 

We  did  so  once,  or  thought  we  did  because 

Emancipation  then  had  not  yet  come 

To  us  poor  serfs  of  mere  newspaperdom. 

But  all  things  now  are  wound  up,  bound  to  go 

By  those  great  lights,  world-rulers  here  below, 

Calling  themselves  a  "World,"  a  "Sun,"  or  "Star." 

They  show  what  ulcers  our  great  cities  are. 

"Behold,  my  son,"  said  the  great  Oxenstern, 

"How  little  wisdom  here  will  serve  your  turn." 

Behold,  I  say,  the  body  politic, 

The  mischief  and  the  ills  whereof  'tis  sick. 


of    ^H  £atoar  127 


Two  parties  always  who  bestow  nicknames, 

And  what  one  praises  still  the  other  blames. 

But  all  state  doctors  do  is  a  stale  trick 

To  feel  the  pulse,  and  have  the  patient  stick 

The  tongue  out,  while  they  go  with  solemn  face 

About  to  "skin  and  film  the  ulcerous  place." 

For  truth  compels  the  judgment  if  severe, 

There  is  no  soundness  and  no  health  is  here. 

And  this  we  say  in  spite  of  the  hard  task 

Compelling  men  to  wear  a  smiling  mask. 

For  all  professional  men,  in  what  they  do, 

Must  have  the  hypocrisy  of  their  talents  too; 

And  every  other  man  whom  they  shall  meet 

Lives  by  his  art  and  practises  deceit. 

To  learn  a  trade  meant  once  a  first  degree 

Taken  in  that  which  was  a  "mystery." 

And  when  his  long  apprenticeship  was  o'er, 

He  faced  the  world,  then,  as  a  traveling  "jour." 

And  what  this  meant,  read  "Wilhelm  Meister,"  see 

Of  human  culture  the  epitome. 

And  if  he  really  were  a  man  of  parts, 

Twas  not  from  college  then  his  M.  A.  starts. 

They  give  not  mastery  howsoe'er  one  rates 

The  worth  of  titles  or  of  doctorates. 

The  man  alone  can  crown  himself  with  dower 

And  mastery  of  knowledge,  which  is  power. 

The  locomotive  and  the  battle-ship 

Built  by  the  man  who  has  not  lost  his  grip 

Prove  him  a  master,  but  had  Caesar  stept 

Aboard  the  Kearsarge,  he  had  smiled  or  wept 

To  know  that  he  knew  nothing  of  its  parts, 

And  therefore  not  a  master  of  the  arts. 


128  emorial  Bolume 


To  him  it  were  a  marvel  or  a  toy, 

As  much  as  any  wonder  to  a  boy. 

Yet  to-day's  miracle  by  to-morrow's  grace 

Becomes  its  comment  and  its  commonplace; 

Since  the  last  birth  of  human  hopes  and  fears 

In  the  long  process  of  the  patient  years, 

Through  evolution  comes  by  slow  degrees, 

Hence  the  true  doctorates  and  the  masteries; 

And  hence  proceeds  at  providential  pace 

The  education  of  the  human  race. 

Short-sighted  mortals  who  will  never  see 

That  all  things  bear  proportion  and  degree; 

And  that  no  man  or  nation's  fit  to  take 

A  foremost  place  till  tutored  by  the  stake 

That  all  men  strive  for,  and  which  e'en  defies 

All  efforts  but  the  best  to  win  the  prize. 

Who  gives  the  child  a  homestead  or  a  farm 

While  yet  the  rattle  has  a  power  to  charm? 

And  would  you  give  the  electorate  to  them 

Who  have  not  learned  yet  tyranny  to  stem? 

Or  the  last  gift  of  human  freedom  throw 

Like  a  mere  bawbee  to  those  babies,  lo, 

(So  far  as  knowledge  and  as  self-control 

Direct  their  efforts  yet  to  Freedom's  goal), 

Capricious,  treacherous,  ignorant,  savage,  wild, 

Whom  Kipling  called  "half-savage  and  half-child." 

Men  are  but  children  yet  and  savages, 

Since  they  believe  what  the  newspaper  says! 

Its  writers  are  the  puppets  on  its  wires; 

Its  readers,  oh,  in  purgatorial  fires, 

Go  purge  your  souls,  and  if  a  spot  remains, 

Scour  with  the  fuller's  earth  of  busy  pains 


of    ^otm  £afcar  129 


In  better  reading,  purer  knowledge,  there, 

Go  bathe  in  rivers  of  auroral  air, 

And  make  your  minds,  as  Thoreau  said  of  books, 

"A  thoroughfare  for  the  Parnassian  brooks." 

The  soul  that  like  a  distant  world  or  star 

Sees  not  the  plague-spots  that  great  cities  are 

Escapes  contagion  and  all  sordidness. 

Give  me  the  country,  then,  and  I'll  not  this 

Greenwood  exchange  for  ugly  chimney-pots, 

A  brick-and-mortar  wilderness  for  spots 

Of  greenary  'mid  the  Sabbath  of  the  hills. 

There  the  cloud  angels  come  and  often  lean 

O'er  mountain  galleries  to  admire  the  scene. 

There  in  the  shade  by  silver-footed  rills 

His  pitcher  at  the  fountain  eke  he  fills; 

That  leaps  to  glory  in  the  common  air 

Of  cities  cooled  and  freshened  in  the  glare; 

4  'And  only  they  who  in  sad  cities  dwell 

Are  of  the  green  trees  fully  sensible." 

They  in  a  hundred  gracious  ways  recall 

To  mind  the  Spirit  that  is  over  all, 

And  in  the  law  of  limitation  set 

On  ways  of  mortal  men  escaped  the  net 

Into  the  walks  of  Universal  mind, 

We  feel  that  they  are  exiles  from  their  kind, 

And  in  our  sadness  they  are  sad  as  men's 

Souls  in  our  urban  fellow-citizens 

Pining  in  cities  for  the  sylvan  grot 

Where  solitude  is  heaven,  and  man  is  not, 

A  grove,  a  fountain  and  a  shady  spot: 

These  in  Homeric  landscape  found  are  well 

Composed  in  ancient  meads  of  asphodel. 


130  Hemorial  Volume 


Until  you  find  such  you  have  never  found 

What    earth    was    made    for,     nor    the     mountains 

round 

About  Jerusalem,  —  still  you  settled  there 
And  were  a  denizen  of  the  upper  air, 
You  could  not  be,  for  all  your  thoughts  in  coffer 
The  old  Greek  nature's  attic  philosopher; 
No  Plato  in  the  grove  of  Academe, 
Discoursing  on  the  loftiest  human  theme, 
Nor  learned  rabbi  with  your  ephod  on 
For  temple  service  to  King  Solomon. 
But  then,  one  need  not  cross  the  seas  to  find 
Jerusalem,  its  towers  and  temples  shined 
To  Thanatopsis'  bard  in  old  Berkshire, 
As  poet  of  the  superior  atmosphere. 
His  bardship  proved  when  he  had  given  tongue 
To  Greylock  and  the  hills  he  lived  among, 
And  Wordsworth  also  showed  by  precept,  and 
His  life  among  the  hills  of  Westmoreland, 
That  man  alone,  aloof  from  power  and  pelf, 
Can  be  a  king  and  priest  unto  himself. 
'Tis  my  persuasion  and  belief,  not  dim, 
Though  some  would  call  it  prejudice  or  whim, 
That  no  profoundly  meditative  mind, 
No  philosophic  spirit  great  or  kind, 
Can  live  in  the  highly  carburetted  air 
Of  modern  cities  with  their  gloom  and  glare, 
And  all  their  noise-producing  ways  and  means, 
Insomnia,  madness,  mops  and  magazines! 
For  solitude,  the  soul's  incessant  prayer 
And  nourisher  of  greatness  is  not  there; 
But  feverish  haste,  and  all  that  Arnold  rhymes 
With  "the  sick  hurry  of  these  modern  times." 


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Cities  are  made  for  those  who  buy  and  sell, 
But  for  the  finer  spirits,  they  are,  —  well, 
No  poet  ever  lived  who  did  not  own 
He  loved  the  country  for  itself  alone. 
And  no  great  man  or  statesman  from  the  days 
Of  Washington  to  Webster,  Garfield,  Hayes, 
But  sought  and  found,  secure  in  country  life 
A  home  and  haven  from  politician's  strife. 

Go  seek  the  fountain  head  and  find  the  spring 

Of  grandeur  in  the  glory-hidden  thing 

Of  what  Webster  was;  trace  whereso  allied 

The  stormy  springs  of  passion,  power  and  pride 

To  their  first  origin  in  the  far-off  years, 

The  misty  mountain  top  of  hopes  and  fears 

That  saw  the  morning  red  of  his  Desire 

In  Liberty's  blown  rose  as  rash  as  fire  — 

An  ardent  spirit  held  in  check  by  law, 

The  border  mystery  and  religious  awe 

Of  the  unseen  and  greater  universe; 

And  eke  Imagination's  natural  nurse, 

His  fatherland  whose  features  bold  and  stern 

Impressed  the  lesson  which  he  had  to  learn 

Of  temperance,  patience,  and  of  hard  work  graced 

With  bars  of  sweat  before  all  virtue  placed; 

And  back  of  all  the  goodness  that  sunshined 

The  region  of  the  heart,  and  bore  in  mind 

A  father's  blessing,  and  the  mother's  grace 

Of  sweet  religion  in  a  homebred  face, 

And  e'en  the  church  yard  where  had  she  not  lain, 

He  might  have  toiled  up  glory's  path  in  vain: 

Why  further  seek  when  all  that  is  most  dear 

In  love  of  country  and  of  kind  is  here? 


132  Memorial  Volume 

Behold  the  secret  spring  and  fountain  head 

Of  glory  in  the  world  of  greatness  led. 

Behold  the  eyrie,  cradle,  dear  home  nest 

Of  eaglet  caught  in  this  wild  region,  free! 

The  Genius  of  Republican  Liberty, 

From  the  first  hour  in  which  the  Boy  awoke, 

Grew  like  a  solitary  pasture  oak, 

Which,  when  the  stormy  South  blew  up  revolt, 

Defied  the  tempest  and  the  thunderbolt; 

And  in  all  weathers  with  a  free  consent 

Sheltered  the  Union  Arms  his  royal  tent. 

Ah!  what  a  man  he  was  to  the  whole  world  known, 

Who  on  the  height  of  great  occasion  shone! 

He  showed  his  breeding  when  the  ancestral  stock 
Of  virtues  came  out  strong  on  Plymouth  Rock. 
And  who  that  heard  him,  ever  can  or  will 
Forget  the  orator  of  Bunker  Hill? 
He  spoke  for  "liberty  throughout  the  globe," 
And  in  a  pause  of  wonder  from  the  rack 
Men  heard  the  monument  behind  his  back 
Reverberate  "liberty  throughout  the  globe!" 
The  height  of  eloquence,  the  true  sublime 
Was  reached  by  him,  then,  in  that  noble  chime 
Of  thought  and  feeling,  figure,  mien  and  voice, 
And  the  imperial  liberty  of  choice, 
Which  made  those  words,  "I  am  an  American" 
Immortal  on  the  lips  of  this  great  man. 
He  loved  his  country  as  the  Seamless  One, 
And  had  such  horror  of  division, 
That  in  his  agony  he  cried  out,  "O! 
Secession,  Sir!  but  where  am  I  to  go?" 


of     on  J>afcar  133 


Must  he,  too,  fall,  chief  pillar  of  the  state 

Who  bore  and  suffered  all,  but  could  not  hate 

The  little  men  who  girded  so  at  thee, 

While  others  laid  the  axe  at  root  of  tree 

Of  his  ambition  honorably  great,  - 

Nobly  to  serve  and  save  the  falling  state. 

Say  thy  last  prayer  on  earth!  was't  not  for  her 

Who  cast  him  off,  and  to  the  sepulchre 

Sent  all  thy  hopes  and  thee!  alack,  astart, 

Then  burst  the  fibres  of  his  mighty  heart, 

And  vailing  his  proud  top,  with  darkening  frown 

The  lone  majestic  oak  came  thundering  down 

With  widespread  ruin  on  the  earth  to  lie, 

While  friend  and  neighbor  stood  with  weeping  eye: 

"The  world  without  you  in  this  awful  hour 

Feels  lonesome,  void  of  glory  and  of  power." 

Without  a  wish  to  wander  or  to  roam, 

He  loved  his  country,  but  indeed  his  home, 

His  home  was  in  the  hills  from  whence  he  came 

To  fill  the  land  with  his  o'ershadowing  fame. 

Cities  do  well  to  honor  the  Great  Man; 

They  do  themselves  proud  as  they  will  and  can 

To  lift  the  column,  statue,  fountain  where 

His  virtue  loftiest  in  the  public  square 

Leapt  in  the  plentitude  of  golden  hours 

When  men  first  took  the  measure  of  his  powers. 


134  Memorial  Volume 

ENVOI 

The  memory  of  my  boyhood  would  not  be 

The  same  it  is  to  country  or  to  me 

If  Daniel  Webster's  life  and  light  had  failed 

Or  on  my  youth's  horizon  had  not  sailed, 

That  star  of  the  first  magnitude.     No  doubt 

That  a  great  light  went  down,  but  went  not  out. 

And  this  the  doctrine  as  a  gleam  in  gloom 

I  gather  from  the  legend  on  his  tomb : 

Is  nothing  greater  in  the  universe 

Than  the  vast  soul  of  man;  and  let  this  verse, 

Though  cracked  and  warped   as   ancient  tombstones 

lean, 

Remember  to  the  world  what  I  have  seen, 
Who  saw  the  century's  majestic  pose 
Of  greatness  in  this  man;  and  to  his  foes 
Men  said  who  saw,  how  gloomed  he,  overbrowed ! 
His  looks  were  blacker  than  a  thundercloud. 
And  all  knew  when  his  thunderbolts  were  hurled; 
His  was  our  country's  voice  against  the  world ! 
But  when  the  storm  passed  by,  again  he  smiled, 
Jovial  and  friendly  as  old  ocean's  child. 
He  more  than  fame  or  eloquence  did  prize 
His  oxen's  honest,  shining,  great,  brown  eyes. 
And  he  had  told  you  if  he  cared  to  rate 
The  smug  hypocrisy  of  church  and  state, 
That  he  preferred,  with  lettered  ease  and  calm, 
The  independent  life  of  home  and  farm 
To  all  the  fuss  of  glory's  greatest  hour, 
The  pride  and  pomp  and  circumstance  of  power; 
An  ode  of  Horace  to  the  helm  of  state, 
The  woodland  walk  to  seeming  wise  and  great, 


of  ffofrn  £abarp  135 


And  seeking  still  urbanity,  to  find 

He  had  not  disafforested  his  mind, 

But  with  a  heart  unspoiled  by  place  and  power, 

He  kept  the  freshness  of  his  childhood's  hour, 

And  at  the  limit  of  the  latest  day, 

Could  place  his  hand  upon  his  heart  and  say, 

He  had  not  purposed  wrong  at  eve  or  morn 

To  any  man  or  child  or  woman  born; 

But  loved  his  neighbor  while  he  turned  the  sod, 

And  prizing  all  the  handiwork  of  God, 

He  loved  his  country  first,  so  that  we  won 

True  self-respect,  and  heard  the  glad  "well  done!" 

From  that  internal  witness  of  the  role 

Which  none  can  bribe:  O  just  and  manly  soul, 

Who,  knowing  life  in  palace  and  in  cot, 

The  state  of  grandeur  and  the  poor  man's  lot, 

Before  all  Captains  of  the  wandering  foam, 

Preferred  to  live  and  be  himself  at  home; 

And  like  that  other  still  of  ancient  date, 

Who  could  not  bear  to  be  held  second-rate, 

The  would-be  Caesar  of  his  leafy  Rome, 

Had  but  one  wish  before  he  turned  to  loam— 

To  play  the  man-child  to  the  manor  born, 

To  shave  the  lawn  or  shock  the  ripened  corn; 

And  far  from  human  wickedness  and  strife, 

In  that  calm  vale  where  he  began  his  life, 

To  end  his  days,  and  at  the  last  to  creep 

To  Mother  Earth  where  his  forefathers  sleep. 


136  jttemorial  Bolumc 

THE  MEMORY  OF   BURNS 

BORN  JANUARY  25,  1759 

O  sovran  poet  of  the  heart! 

Oft  as  thy  natal  day  returns, 
With  votive  wreath  of  song  and  art 

We  crown  the  bust  of  Robert  Burns. 

World-wearied,  worn  and  wandering  soul 
Which  found  no  resting-place  on  earth, 

Sit  now,  and  crown  the  flowing  bowl, 
The  guest  of  wit  and  love  and  mirth. 

And  while  the  crackling  fagots  blaze, 

Amid  the  revel  and  the  roar, 
In  the  loud  chorus  of  his  praise, 

What  is  one  note  the  less  or  more? 

As  one  oppressed  with  gratitude 

Steals  noteless  from  among  the  crowd, 

And  at  some  shrine  remote  and  rude 
Chants  in  a  voice  more  deep  than  loud: 

0  passion-breathing  soul  sublime! 
Thou  bard  of  nature  and  of  truth; 

1  to  my  patron  saint  in  rhyme 

Would  breathe  the  vow  I  made  in  youth, 

It  may  be  wrong,  at  least  not  wise 

In  one  no  poet  by  profession, 
To  strip  himself  of  all  disguise, 

And  show  the  soul's  face  in  confession. 


of    toH  £afcar  137 


But  this  I  know,  that  none  yet  can 
From  hope's  high  reach  to  low  despair 

Encompass  all  the  notes  of  man 
Like  bards  of  Avon  and  of  Ayr. 

I  quit  the  temple  where  I  hear 

The  loud  ^Eschylian  thunders  roll; 

Macbeth,  The  Tempest,  Hamlet,  Lear, 
But  gie's  your  fist,  my  ploughman-soul. 

I  owe  thee  more  than  child  or  wife, 
Or  parents  in  the  common  role; 

For  they  at  most  but  gave  me  life, 
But  thou  —  thou  gavest  me  a  soul; 

Since  when  a  tuneless  clod  of  clay, 
My  nature  wrapt  in  wintry  gloom, 

Beneath  thy  genius'  fervid  ray 
Awoke  and  burgeoned  into  bloom. 

For  thou  hast  broken  to  me  bread 

For  which  the  starved  heart  inly  pines; 

Raised  from  the  darkness  of  the  dead 

To  cheerful  warmth  and  light  that  shines. 

With  my  large  liberty  content 

To  think  and  feel  and  dare  to  act, 

I  thank  thee  for  enfranchisement, 
My  poet  most  in  deed  and  fact; 

Thou  wast  to  me  a  warm  spring  day, 
And  all  my  roots  of  being  stirred, 

As  when  upon  the  budding  spray 
One  hears  the  voice  of  singing  bird. 


138  lemotial  Bolume 


My  soul  experienced  that  new  birth 
Of  springtime  in  the  heart  which  lives, 

When  the  twin-born  of  love  and  mirth 
A  new  and  true  expression  gives. 

As  lofty  mountains  capped  with  snows 
Surround  some  valley  green  with  spring, 

So  loftiest  bards  are  unto  those 
Who  dwell  in  thy  enchanted  ring. 

Can  I  forget  the  pleasant  time 

Which  love  and  genius  made  me  know? 
Thy  many  flowers  of  happy  rhyme, 

Thy  brookside  songs  that  come  and  go. 

Still  hummed  thy  verses'  singing  noise, 
While  far  thy  deeper  numbers  roll; 

And  every  passion  found  a  voice 
That  agitates  the  human  soul. 

Far  in  my  heart  thy  thrilling  song 
Was  borne  and  carried  ecstasy; 

And  in  the  rush  of  feeling  strong, 
I  felt  the  god  of  poesy. 

For  nothing  heavy,  dull  or  dutch 
Bore  ever  yet  thy  name  or  brand; 

In  the  bold  freedom  of  thy  touch 
I  recognized  the  master  hand. 

A  hand  indeed  to  wake  the  lyre, 

The  sweetest,  wildest,  weirdest  strain! 

The  lover's  passion  sigh  of  fire, 
The  patriot  ardor  not  in  vain. 


of    fof    £abar  139 


0  for  that  hour  when  first  I  met 
My  poet  on  the  banks  of  Ayr! 

1  saw  the  rainbow  song  there  set 

In  his  dark  heaven  of  grief  and  care. 

And  all  earth's  joy,  mirth's  mighty  reel 
Of  music  made  in  halls  and  bowers, 

Was  mine  when  first  thou  mad'st  me  feel 
The  consciousness  of  nobler  powers. 

So  all  my  faculties  in  chime 

Rang  out  thy  music  sweet  and  low; 

Transplanted  was  thy  flower  of  rhyme 
And  in  my  border  set  to  grow. 

To  think  how  funny  was  the  rhyme! 

What  humor  sly  in  "Posie  Nancy;" 
In  Tarn  O'Shanter  what  sublime 

Imagination,  wit  and  fancy. 

What  pathos  is  in  "Auld  Lang  Syne!" 

In  '  'Scots  Wha  Hae,"  what  rage  of  battle; 

6  'Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  of  wine," 

He  bids  his  love  while  trumpets  rattle. 

In  every  land,  in  every  clime, 

Who  does  not  meet  his  "  Bonnie  Lassie?" 
But  who  can  weave  the  bonny  rhyme, 

And  pledge  her  so  in  silver  tassie? 

There  is  no  lack  of  beauties  bright 
In  every  rank  and  place  and  station; 

We  view  them  like  the  stars  by  night  - 
The  fairer  part  of  all  creation. 


140  jftemorial  Volume 

And  for  our  lovers,  O,  alas ! 

They  are  not  Burns  —  but  this  between  us  - 
Out  of  a  plain  Scotch  homely  lass, 

To  make  a  goddess  bright  as  Venus ! 

Oh,  who  can  tell  the  wondrous  charms 
Of  which  his  magic  verse  is  mother? 

I  could  have  rushed  into  his  arms, 
And  hugged  the  poet  for  a  brother. 

'Twas  not  his  poetry  though  sweet 

Which  made  all  humankind  to  love  him; 

'Twas  the  great  heart  that  kindly  beat 
In  every  verse  that  doth  approve  him. 

The  Daisy  and  the  Mousie's  lot 
In  those  immortal  strains  relenting 

He  pitied  them  because  forgot 

By  the  cold  world  and  unrepenting. 

The  very  Deil  he  dared  to  bail 

From  hell  past  hope  to  see  salvation; 

But  cruel  bigots  felt  the  hail 

Of  his  hot  scorn  and  indignation. 

He  for  a  motto  might  have  worn 
The  Scottish  thistle  on  his  crest; 

Which  wounds  the  hand  against  it  borne, 
Though  downy  plumes  the  seeds  invest. 

For  he  was  tender,  wise  and  witty, 
Though  rough  and  hard  to  wage  the  battle; 

His  songs  were  arrows  tipped  with  pity, 
His  satires  hailstones  keen  that  rattle. 


of  Stofw  Jbatoarp 


The  Scottish  lion  ill  at  ease 

In  waging  war  with  gnats  and  flies, 
Or  bit  by  theologic  fleas, 

Roared  out  against  his  enemies. 

Ignoble  contest!  fire  or  flood, 

Or  any  lion  in  your  path, 
Were  better  met  than  the  chafed  blood 

Of  royal  poet  in  his  wrath. 

But  set  him  to  his  proper  theme, 
To  celebrate  the  loves  and  graces, 

Which  bright  as  angels  in  a  dream 
Unveil  their  sweet  and  serious  faces. 

Then  inspirations  came  like  light, 
Words  full  of  wisdom  and  of  wit; 

And  every  line  he  did  indite, 
He  put  his  whole  soul  into  it. 

The  hearts  of  others  he  can  move 
Because  his  own  is  utter  human; 

He  writes  in  friendship  and  in  love, 
The  apotheosis  of  woman. 

His  songs  how  simple  are  in  form, 
Pure  as  Horatian  odes  in  marble; 

By  his  Pygmalion  art  made  warm 
Until  the  verses  blush  and  warble. 

4  'The  Muse  —  nae  poet  ever  f  and  her, 
Till  by  himsel'  he  learned  to  wander 

Adown  some  trottin'  burn's  meander, 
And  nae  think  lang:  —  " 


142  temorial  Volume 


And  this  is  all  of  Burns's  art; 

The  simple  gift  of  inspiration; 
His  tones  are  of  the  human  heart 

Without  regard  to  rank  or  station. 

A  breath  of  nature  blows  and  shakes 

The  heather-bells  in  breezy  verse; 
The  force  of  poverty  he  breaks 

With  song,  and  lightens  labor's  curse. 

Yet  best  in  social  converse  beamed 

His  native  soul  of  inborn  worth; 
How  glowed  his  dark  eyes  then,  or  gleamed 

Auroral  flashes  of  deep  mirth! 

Of  mirth  —  alas,  of  melancholy, 
For  smiles  and  tears  will  often  rest 

Beneath  the  eyelids  which  are  wholly 
Fed  from  twin  founts  within  the  breast. 

And  these  when  they  exceed  in  measure, 
Must  cause  the  springs  to  overflow; 

i  'Chords  that  vibrate  sweetest  pleasure, 
Thrill  ever  deepest  notes  of  woe." 

Sad  hearts  whose  chords  were  strained  too  much 
Under  the  weight  of  hopes  and  fears; 

Their  angels  rarely  come  to  touch 
The  springs  of  laughter  and  of  tears. 

Then  blame  not  him  because  he  took 
Large  draughts  of  pleasure  and  of  pain; 

O'er  life's  exhausted  fount  he  shook 

His  daring  wings  —  and  soared  again:  — 


of  S^&tt  £atoarp  143 


To  that  high  seat  and  sun  of  love 
Which  is  of  hearts  the  sacred  glow: 

The  mystic  Rose  which  blooms  above 
His  evergreen  of  song  below. 


LOVE  AND   SHAME 

Fair  Love  and  Virtue  handed  as  they  went, 

And,  tripping  light, 
Helped  one  another  up  the  steep  ascent 

To  heaven's  height. 
They  met  another  pair 

As  on  they  came. 
The  crimson  dress  beside  the  dark  stole 

Meant  Love  and  Shame. 
Over  their  left  a  trailing  meteor  slid, 

An  omen  ill; 
But  two  bright  stars  where  Love  and  Virtue  stood 

Shone  o'er  the  hill. 


MY   LAMP 

The  maid  who  every  day  refills  my  lamp, 

And  trims  the  wick,  and  wipes  the  chimney  bright, 
Assists  my  genius  by  the  shining  light 

Which  helps  it  shine  and  burn  away  the  damp 
Of  dulness,  fog,  low  spirits,  lack  of  sun  — 
My  armor-bearer  'gainst  Oblivion. 


144  emorial  Bolume 


RHYTHM 

The  on-rolled  waves  unto  the  shore 
Break  in  a  falling  measured  roar. 
Winds  to  the  wood  with  accent  strong 
Chant  loud  their  dithyrambic  song. 
And,  taught  by  science  how  to  hear, 
The  trained  physician  by  his  ear 
Detects  in  beating  of  the  heart 
The  rhythm  of  poetic  art. 

TO  J.  R.  L. 

To  one  who,  on  his  charger  fine, 
Sits  like  a  warrior  in  array, 
A  subaltern  who  stands  in  line, 
Salutes  the  general  on  his  way; 
And  with  the  most  respectful  air 
Which  duty,  loyalty,  and  truth 
Enjoin  on  him  who  owes  what  fair 
Largess  of  beauty  flung  to  youth! 
Distinguished  in  the  courtly  throng, 
I  touch  my  hat  to  him,  and  say, 
That  from  the  simplest  gift  of  song 
He  will  not  turn  in  scorn  away. 

SHAKESPEARE'S  HEART 

Not  in  the  splendid  pageants  of  the  Muse 

Which  fill  the  temple  of  dramatic  art 
Where  all  the  world  pay  homage  as  their  dues 

Do  we  approach  the  home  of  Shakespeare's  Heart; 

That  sacred  thing  is  domiciled  apart. 


of    ^tt  £atoar  145 


Hence  in  a  chapel  more  remote  and  dim, 

Where  the  sad  music  never  seems  to  vary, 
There  is  enshrined  the  very  heart  of  him, 

And  there  indeed  his  bosom's  sanctuary. 
But  that  low  vault  that  holds  the  poet's  dust, 

Protected  by  the  curse  that  o'er  it  flings 
The  awful  shield  which  no  man  dares  to  thrust, 

Is  not  more  sacred  than  this  Heart  with  wings: 
Those  "sugared  sonnets"  he  hath  lately  penned 
Unto  his  mistress  and  his  noble  friend. 

Approach  who  may  with  awful  reverence 
The  Rose  of  Beauty  in  the  dew  of  Youth 

Gnawed  by  the  canker  worm  —  the  circumstance 
That  leads  directly  to  the  door  of  truth: 
Have  pity  ye  who  gaze,  pity  and  ruth! 

Remember  well  it  was  no  vulgar  hind 
Whose  heart  was  bored  by  secret  torturing  ills 

But  his  conjoint  with  that  imperial  Mind 
Born  to  the  purple,  who  so  grandly  fills 

The  highest  throne  of  greatness  to  mankind. 
It  is  a  spectacle  that  well  might  move 

Fresh  wonder  in  all  hearts  and  through  all  time: 
Transcendent  genius  and  transcendent  love 

With  sorrow  linked  in  everlasting  rhyme. 
He  wrote  this  tragedy  and  played  it  true; 

His  morning  sun  was  darkened  by  eclipse; 
His  heart  was  bursting  in  the  Rose  he  drew, 

Clove  to  the  depths  in  Love's  Apocalypse! 

In  lofty  firmament  no  meteor  slips, 
No  bright  star  fallen  from  the  height  of  heaven 

But  some  life-stream  is  poured  o'er  crimson  lips, 
And  ruin's  ploughshare  through  a  soul  is  driven: 


146  Memorial 


But  such  a  soul  —  and  such  a  heart,  O  Heaven! 

Broken  in  breaking  of  "a  two-fold  truth"  — 
Not  Christ's  forgiveness,  nor  his  mercy  even, 

Surpasses  thine  in  tenderness  and  ruth. 
He  but  forgave  his  foes,  but  thou  thy  friend, 
In  lines  of  love  and  sorrow  without  end. 


BYRON 

"THE  PRINCE  OF  DARKNESS  is  A  GENTLEMAN." 

But  when  I  met  him  —  it  was  years  ago  — 

Under  the  warm  and  windless  hush  of  night 

In  the  brown  silence  of  a  vale  which  was 

Profound  to  him  whom  it  profoundly  moved 

And  chiefly  for  one  great  impression  made 

By  something  then  and  there  which  ever  stands 

Out  like  a  promontory  in  the  flood  of  years  — 

But  when  I  met  him,  as  I  said  just  now, 

Being  alone  and  innocent  of  ill, 

I  did  not  know  him  (for  he  went  about 

Assuming  any  shape  that  pleased  him  best). 

And  so  I  mistook  him  for  my  Lord  Byron. 

It  happened  in  this  wise,  if  that  you  care 

To  know  what  happened,  and  with  circumstance. 

A  youth  of  fourteen  summers,  I  had  gone 

To  the  village  smithy,  and,  my  errand  done, 

Was  trudging  barefoot  on  the  homeward  way, 

With  the  plow-iron  on  my  shoulder  laid, 

And  as  a  boy  will  do,  went  shaping  out 

The  object  of  my  thoughts,  perchance  my  fears, 

From  dim  seen  things  and  dark  imaginings. 

So  as  I  walked  beneath  the  starlight  on 


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The  silent  trail  of  the  old  country  road 

Close  to  the  chalk-line  keeping  on  the  marge 

Of  the  black  green  sward,  velvet  to  my  feet, 

And  heard  the  corn  grow  in  the  silent  night, 

I  saw  the  glowing  swarms  of  bright  fire-flies 

Over  the  meadows  and  along  the  swamp, 

In  their  mixed  motions,  rilling  all  the  air 

With  wreathen  fires,  like  gems,  and  flowers  of  light, 

Bunches  of  golden  bees,  and  gay  festoons, 

Rising  and  falling  and  forever  crost  — 

The  marsh-fed  meteors  of  an  evening  damp. 

I  know  not  why  nor  wherefore,  whence  nor  how 

It  came  about,  but  in  that  instant  came 

The  thought  of  Byron  and  his  genius  which 

Voluptuous  as  the  soft-breathed  summer  night 

Held  in  its  dark  and  cloudy  bosom  just 

Such  fire-fly  swarms  of  thought  and  golden  braid 

All  glittering,  and  in  such  profusion  poured 

As  thick  as  bright,  and  jerking  streams  of  fire 

Over  the  meadows  of  immortal  song! 

He  was  eccentric,  too,  as  giving  light 

In  fitful  flashes,  and  in  motion  still 

Like  erring  stars  —  -  erring  yet  beautiful. 

Yet  not  his  genius  nor  his  gift  of  song 

Impressed  me  so,  as  did  that  something  dark, 

And  grave  and  sad  —  the  presence  of  a  power 

Demonic,  as  of  some  deep  and  personal  force 

That  was  to  him  as  an  overshadowing  cloud, 

And  laid  a  spell  on  every  line  he  wrote. 

I  could  not  fathom  nor  make  out  this  child 

Of  genius  like  a  cherub  heavenly  bright  — 

Bright  for  an  instant  —  changing  to  a  frown 


148  Memorial  Volume 

Dark  and  forbidding,  weird  and  awful  as 

The  face  of  Mystery  in  his  mien  and  make. — • 

For  still  he  loved  to  wrap  around  himself 

His  cloak  of  close  concealment,  and  to  feign 

And  mystify  his  friends,  by  some  perverse 

Humor  that  swayed  him  —  no  man  can  say  what  — 

The  inward  check  and  form  of  destiny, 

The  whim  of  genius  to  this  wayward  man  — 

The  strangeness  of  his  nature  and  his  fate. 

I,  trembling  then  at  his  dark  spell  of  power, 

And  at  his  name  —  a  name  to  conjure  with  - 

Had  such  an  awe  of  him  that  with  my  thought 

Came  superstitious  fear,  and  added  wings 

Unto  my  flying  feet  and  shoulder  blades 

That  pointing  forwards  fled  the  Evil  One, 

Who  seemed  in  league  with  him,  and  really  seemed 

The  power  of  darkness  he  personified. 

For  I  had  heard  that  such  a  power  might  be 

Transformed  to  angel  in  his  robes  of  light, 

And  granting  this,  what  was  there  to  prevent 

The  change  and  transformation  taking  place? 

And  his  unearthly  beauty,  might  it  not 

With  head  of  cherub  have  the  cloven  foot? 

So,  with  a  great  and  foolish  heart  of  fear, 

I  looked  not  backward,  but  with  break-neck  pace 

Held  on  my  course,  until  a  sudden  turn 

Where  the  road  winds  around  the  crest  of  hill 

Disclosed  the  great  square  chimney  rising  up 

From  orchard  trees  about  the  farm-house  old, 

And  then  the  plum-tree  by  the  garden-wall 

Next  to  the  door-yard,  and  the  door  itself, 

At  which  I  rushed  with  a  loud-beating  heart, 


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And  throwing  down  my  burden  as  I  passed 
The  entry,  lo,  the  supernatural  fear 
Was  loosened  from  my  mind,  and  slipt  away 
As  clogs  from  feet,  or  garments  drop  from  us 
Wearied  and  willing  to  be  drowned  in  sleep. 

ON  SHELLEY'S  MEETING  WITH  LORD  BYRON 

They  never  met  or  met  as  planets  twain 

Conjunct  though  opposite,  and  the  most  benign 
Was  over  him  of  aspect  more  malign, 
A  darker  body  and  of  denser  grain, 
Whose  lurid  light  like  darkness  seemed  to  stain 
The  body  of  clearness  of  those  crystal  even 
That  like  bright  stars  in  baleful  vapor  shine. 
Dim,  weak,  and  watery  through  a  comet's  mane, 
This  dreadful  orb,  one  mass  of  whirling  flame, 
The  season's  portent,  prodigy  and  sign, 
Vanished  in  smoke,  and  self-consumed  ere  long. 
But  that  white  star  disgraced,  its  purer  fame 
Reconquers,  and  comes  forth  again  to  shine 
Victorious  and  supreme  in  modern  song. 

THE  GREAT  TEACHER 

As  the  awed  looks  of  lowlanders  by  light 
Of  mountains  in  the  blue  that  seem  to  soar 
From  earth  to  heaven  at  whose  open  door 

Their  cloud-capt  summits  —  hidden  out  of  sight 

Are  touched  with  glory  of  the  infinite, 

So  we,  poor  mortals,  when  we  stand  before 
The  gate  of  Immortality,  adore 


150  Memorial  Volume 

His  awful  masque  of  Music  and  of  Light. 
How  blest  forever  to  the  humble  mind 
The  sage  and  spiritual  teacher  of  mankind! 

O,  nigh  to  God  is  the  age-reverend  brow 
Bearing  the  impress  of  the  world  unseen, 
And,  like  the  secret  mountain-top  serene, 

Basking  in  sunshine  of  the  eternal  Now. 


SHE   SLEEPS 

Night  sleeping  here  in  sweet  composure  view 
In  this  white  stone  an  Angel  carved  with  pains; 
She  Sleeps  and  therefore  lives  —  you  doubt  my  strains? 
Awake  her  then,  and  she  will  speak  to  you. 

"My  pleasure  is  to  sleep,  and  be  a  stone, 

So  long  as  sleep  and  infamy  remain; 

Not  seeing,  and  not  hearing  is  my  gain, 

Then  wake  me  not;  hush!  speak  in  lower  tone." 


OUR  MOTHER  TONGUE 

And  would  you  know  the  English  language,  you 
Must  know  its  ancient  homes  and  homesteads,  all 
Domestic  manners,  custom,  usage,  trade, 
And  man's  and  women's  ways  in  hut  and  hall; 
The  open  fire-place  and  the  chimney-stack 
Which  anchored  the  old  mansion  to  the  soil; 
Its  ancient  stair-case  oaken,  broad  and  strong, 
Its  winding  passages,  and  winsome  nooks, 
Nursery  and  playroom,  bluebeard  chamber,  old 
Armor,  and  harness;  helmet,  gloves,  and  foils, 
And  much  old  furniture  of  a  decayed 


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Gentility  pattern,  tarnished  and  outworn, 
Sent  to  the  store-room,  general  hospital 
Of  all  such  invalid  and  broken-down 
Chattels  and  movables  no  longer  used. 
So,  in  our  day,  householders  relegate 
The  ancient  spinning-wheel  and  old  hand-loom 
To  dusty  attics,  where  a  child  will  climb 
To  hide  some  secret  sorrow,  shame  or  blame, 
And  find  great  comfort  there  in  poking  round 
Among  old  papers,  hangings,  and  dried  "yarbs," 
The  smell  of  sage,  and  infinite  debris, 
The  wrecks  of  time-old  family  heir-looms. 
And  such  a  home  with  its  heir-looms  is  this 
Our  English  tongue,  the  language,  all 
The  many  corridored,  and  spreading  wide 
Old  mansion  house,  with  all  its  lean-tos,  made 
From  time  to  time,  as  need  and  use  required. 
And  where's  the  child  brought  up  in  it,  to-day 
Who  does  not  love  it  with  a  passionate  love 
Of  longing  and  regret  to  miss  one  old 
Familiar  feature?  let  it  be  the  same 
Old  homestead,  falling  but  by  slow  degrees. 

PROSE   VS.   POETRY 

Prose  creeps,  loiters,  dawdles  or  dashes  through 

A  hundred  ways,  but  always  sticks  to  you; 

Heavy  and  lumpish,  with  a  soul  of  lead, 

And  drunk,  or  sober,  less  alive  than  dead. 

The  muse  is  dainty,  her  aerial  flight 

Balanced  and  beautiful,  and  charming  light. 

A  bright  intelligence  featured  like  a  girl 

In  cheek  and  brow,  the  dew-drop's  mounted  pearl. 


152  lemotial  Volume 


The  form  succinct,  and  with  a  perfect  poise 
Of  motion  sliding  onward  without  noise, 
Whether  she  walk  or  ride,  run,  fly,  or  skim 
The  earth,  admired,  so  featly  she  doth  swim 
With  goddess-gait  the  roughest  ways  along, 
All  men  admire  the  easy  flight  of  song: 
Her  graceful  motions  ere  aloft  she  springs  - 
Though  the  bird  walk,  you  know  that  she  has  wings. 


WORD   CRITICS 

To  those  word  critics,  and  to  only  them 
Who  pick  a  flaw  in  everything  you  write! 
I  scorn  them  as  they  scorn  what  can  delight  - 

Beauty  set  off  by  some  adorning  gem. 

Flawed  are  the  world's  crown  jewels,  on  the  stem 
Of  Honor  borne  to  Royalty  bedight 
With  robes  magnificent,  and  dazzling  light 

On  brows  where  Glory  sets  the  diadem. 

The  element  of  language  is  not  pure 

Though  plastic,  as  it  is  by  poets  wrought. 
Lucky  who  fails  not  in  the  supreme  test! 

E'en  Dante  could  not  wholly  mend  nor  cure 
Those  ill  words  put  to  torture  of  his  thought 
He  made  them  say,  though,  what  he  wanted,  best. 


THE   COLD  TYPES 

Thou  fool,  beware  the  terrors  of  cold  type! 

Tremble  and  cry,  spare  me  the  terrible  test! 

Needs  must  he  have  high  courage,  soul  addrest 
To  ease  and  manage  of  the  smooth-lipped  pipe, 


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The  firm  and  flying  touch,  the  bold  sure  gripe 
That  holds  the  subject  still  in  idea,  lest 
Falling  below  the  level  of  his  best 

He  should  be  lamed  in  judgment  as  unripe. 

The  public  knows  not,  and  should  never  know 
How  many  failures  go  to  one  success. 
But  write  on  still,  and  all  that  labor  spent, 

Burn  what  is  written;  time  at  last  will  show, 
In  some  great  Crisis'  real  storm  and  stress 
Perfected  mastery  of  the  instrument. 


A   SCHOLAR'S   CREED 

Let  the  gods  who  dispose  of  kingdom  and  crown, 
Boss  Congress  and  Courts  in  Washington  town, 
Whomsoever  they  please  set  up  and  pull  down. 
Be  it  Cleveland  or  Blaine,  what  matters  to  me, 
So  I  hold  but  my  tongue  and  keep  my  soul  free? 
No  party-man  I  to  bawl  or  to  screech 
Red-hot  editorial,  or  congressman's  speech. 
I  think  what  I  please,  read  books,  or  hear  read, 
I  smoke  my  cigar,  sip  claret,  to  bed, 
But  with  matters  of  state  ne'er  trouble  my  head. 


SPARE  THE   ROD 

The  proud,  the  brave,  the  sensitive,  the  heart 
Broken  for  any  fault  deserves  some  ruth; 

But  most  the  young  deserve  it  on  the  part 

Of  all  who  use  the  pedagogic  art. 

Think,  O  ye  moralists  of  sturdy  truth, 

How  keen  the  sorrows  of  your  own  first  youth! 


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A  SONNET  OF   SONNETS 

Ego  apis  Matinae 

More  modoque 

Grata  carpentis  thyma  per  laboram 
Plurimum  circa  nemus  uvidique 
Tiburis  ripas  operosa  parvus 

Carmina  fingo.  —  Horace. 

Well  done,  friend  Horace.     Like  the  booming  bumble 
bee  that 

Loves  in  wavy  lines  to  steer 
About  his  flower-loves  in  the  garden;  hear 
The  glorious  reveler  with  his  fervid  hum! 
Mark  with  what  fine  unerring  instinct  plumb 

Down  in  yon  tuberose  he  drops  him  sheer 

Weighted  with  sweetness  —  that's  your  sonnetteer! 
I  love  the  honeycomb,  but,  Horace,  come, 
Your  odes  are  sweeter,  labored  as  you  say. 
Yet  where's  the  poet  worthy  of  the  name, 

That  does  not  sing  as  doth  the  lark  in  flight? 
Pleasing  his  toil  as  bees'  in  flowery  May 
From  music's  self  he  sucks  the  soul  out!  Aim 

Bee-like  at  beauty,  pleasure,  sweetness,  light. 

HELEN  OF  TROY 

Was  this  the  form,  was  this  the  face 
That  set  the  ancient  world  in  flames, 
That  gave  us  Homer's  song  and  race 
Of  heroes  with  undying  fames? 
Quenched  is  that  beautiful  and  bright 
Firebrand  of  the  gods  in  night. 


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But  there  are  Helens  yet  whose  faces 
Can  fire  a  world  with  huge  alarms; 
So  absolute  in  all  their  graces, 
That  at  the  sight  we  fly  to  arms. 
Aye,  beauty  conquers,  but  we  go 
Toward,  not  from,  the  fatal  foe. 


GOOD  NIGHT 

FROM  THE  ITALIAN 

Good  night!  good  night!  if  here  below, 
Night  can  be  good  not  having  thee. 
Say  not  'Good  night!' —  for  well  you  know 
Night  is  not  good  to  me. 

I  go  through  thick  and  stormy  weather, 
Drawn  by  one  star  —  thy  window  light; 
Two  hearts  that  beat  as  one  together 
Need  not  to  say,  Good  night! 

The  night  may  have  her  moon  and  stars, 
'Tis  drear  and  dark  without  thy  light; 
And  aching  hearts  through  prison-bars 
In  exile  sigh,  Good  night. 

Pronounce  it  not!  I  banish  would 
That  phrase  which  banishes  delight. 
To  have  the  nights  both  sweet  and  good 
Say  not,  my  love,  Good  night! 


156  jflemotriat 


HOARFROST 

FROM  THE  INFERNO,  CANTO  xxiv,  v.  1-15 

When  Youth's  fresh  hue  to  the  year's  temples  wan 
Comes  by  the  Sun's  locks  tempered  in  the  Urn, 
And  the  nights  shorten  as  the  days  stretch  on; 

When  on  the  ground  the  Hoarfrost's  pen  doth  yearn 
To  copy  there  his  dazzling  sister's  bright 
Image,  but  the  distempered  nib  will  turn, 

The  countryman  whom  forage  faileth  quite 
Gets  up  and  sees  the  all  o'er-whitened  plains; 
Whereat  he  slaps  him  on  the  thigh  outright, 

Goes  in  the  house,  and  up  and  down  complains 
Like  the  poor  wretch  who  loseth  heart  of  grace; 
Then  out  he  goes  again,  and  hope  regains 

Seeing  the  world  doth  wear  a  changed  face 

From  the  last  hour,  and  takes  his  shepherd's  crook, 
And  drives  the  flock  forth  to  their  feeding-place. 

IN   HAREWOOD 

The  beautiful  world  is  mine  to-day, 

Is  mine  to-day,  though  half  I  bring 
To  the  feast  of  soul  the  winsome  lay, 

The  song  I  sing. 

For  my  heart  is  full  as  a  full-boughed  tree, 
A  full-boughed  tree  of  singing  birds; 

And  the  fluttered  wings  of  the  melody 
Are  winged  words. 

Afar  'mid  the  flames  of  silent  spires, 

Of  silent  spires,  in  sunny  grove, 
Where  the  footpath  winds  through  ruined  choirs, 

I  love  to  rove. 


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Down  through  the  Capitol  vista  shown, 

The  vista  shown,  I  see  arise 
The  great  white  dome  like  a  bubble  blown 

In  the  winter  skies. 

We're  proud  of  it  as  the  hearth  and  home 
The  hearth  and  home  of  a  people  free; 
But  what  is  that  to  the  circling  dome 
That's  over  me? 

That  the  supreme  good  is  the  supreme  fair, 
The  supreme  fair,  is  sooth  to  say; 

And  all  tuned  hearts  to  the  self-same  air 
Are  set  to-day. 

For  the  bridegroom  earth  with  soft  curves  true, 
With  soft  curves  true,  appears  to  cling 

To  his  radiant  bride  the  sky  so  blue 
To  the  horizon's  ring. 

'Tis  the  symbol  fair  of  a  marriage  rare, 
A  marriage  rare  with  due  increase; 

And  the  golden  wedding  bells  in  air 
Ring  love  and  peace. 


CALAMITY 

Alone  and  sleeping  at  the  dead  of  night, 
Within  my  chamber  IT  approached  me  near; 
But  if  I  rose  and  shivered  with  affright 
Or  lay  quite  still  in  drench  of  mortal  fear, 
I  cannot  tell  —  though  nothing  did  appear. 
Anon  I  heard  ten  thousand  spirits  sigh 
Upon  a  passing  wind  —  and  from  the  strand 
I  heard  lift  up  the  water-dragons'  cry. 


158  temotiai  Volume 


They  raise  their  wings  and  sink  upon  the  land; 
They  fall  to  rise,  and  toiling  evermore, 
Come  on  again  with  heavier  steps  and  slower 
Against  the  house  that  builded  is  on  sand. 
The  rattling  window  frames  and  crazy  door 
Shake  with  the  surge  —  and  fear  around  doth  spread 
Then  swoop  the  dragons  with  a  falling  roar 
And  pile  the  world  of  waters  overhead. 


ROCK  CREEK 

Beyond  the  limits  of  the  city  seen 

But  scarcely  heard  within  the  twilight  hush 
Of  lowering  woods  above  the  hermit  thrush  — 
The  guardian  spirit  of  the  sylvan  scene, 
Where  at  the  bottom  of  a  deep  ravine, 
Swollen  by  autumn  rains  the  river's  rush 
Is  heard  at  times,  and  on  its  banks  the  lush 
Lobelia  grows,  and  fallen  tree  trunks  lean: — 
Here  on  a  day  when  sunshine  seems  to  love 
Soft  bars  of  cloud  in  air's  delicious  blue 
And  making  drunk  the  earth  October's  wine 
Stored  in  the  golden  vault  is  soaking  through 
The  azure  world  of  hope  and  heaven  above, 
I  saw  the  face  of  my  companion  shine. 


AMERICA 

These  vast  activities  which  success  doth  crown 
In  the  mad  race  for  riches  and  renown 
I,  sitting  to  look  on,  like  not  the  greed, 
But  grumble  not  because  I  don't  succeed. 


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FLORIDA 

Come,  let  us  go  unto  the  land  of  flowers ! 
The  land  of  old  romance  and  freshest  truth, 
Land  of  the  Fountain  of  perpetual  youth! 
Flora  and  Maytime  to  the  birds  in  bowers, 
Land  of  the  orange  and  the  citron's  bloom, 
Of  halcyon  airs  and  seas,  and  faint  perfume, 
The  zone  of  pleasure  and  the  rosy  hours. 


YORKTOWN 

OCTOBER  19,  1781 

JT  was  late  October;  the  chill  that  blights 
In  all  autumnal  shades  and  lights 
(The  long  deserted  streets  o'  nights) 
Was  heavy  and  raw  with  the  river  mist 
Which  overhung  the  town  as  whist 
As  a  mouldering  City  of  the  Dead, 
When  on  his  beat  a  watchman  said, 

"Past  twal  o'clock 
And  Gornwallis  ees  daken!" 

Ah!  when  that  sound  the  stillness  broke 
It  was  as  if  the  dead  awoke; 
The  sleeping  folk  rose  up  amazed 
And  out  of  windows  looking  dazed 
Men  heard  the  news,  and  saw  the  gleam 
As  if  a  spirit  passed  in  dream: 

'  Tast  twal  o'clock 
And  Cornwallis  is  taken!" 


160 Memorial  Volume 

4 'Light  up!  Light  up!"  the  people  said, 
And  let  us  paint  the  old  town  red! 
Night  lanterns  glimmered  thro'  the  fog, 
The  city  of  Penn  was  all  agog; 
Old  neighbors  hugged  each  other,  and 
E'en  warmly  shook  the  stranger's  hand. 

"Past  twal  o'clock 
And  Gornwallis  ees  daken!" 

Oh!  what  rejoicings  there  were  then 
Within  that  ancient  burg  of  Penn! 
What  bonfires  blazed!  how  rose  the  swell 
Of  dear  old  Independence  bell, 
"Proclaim  ye  LIBERTY  to  all 
The  inhabitants  of  the  land  withal!" 

"Past  twal  o'clock 
And  Cornwallis  is  taken." 

Historic  moment  most  sublime! 

The  turning  of  the  tide  of  time, 

To  us,  at  least,  as  we  recall, 

Sons  of  the  Revolution  all, 

The  watchman's  rattle  when  he  said, 

As  on  the  joyful  tidings  sped, 

'  Tast  twal  o'clock 
And  Gornwallis  ees  daken!" 


AT  WASHINGTON'S  TOMB 

A  pewee  makes  his  humble  nest 

Within  the  vault,  and  chasing  gloom 

With  song  and  sunshine  in  the  west 
Day  lingers  in  the  grated  tomb. 


of 


Autumn  there  in  robes  of  glory 
Chants  her  solemn  even-song 

Harping  on  the  old,  old  story 
We  have  heard  so  oft  and  long. 

Glory  is  a  bonfire  litten, 
Life  is  very,  very  brief; 

And  its  chronicle  is  written 
On  the  sere  and  faded  leaf. 


THE   RIVER  OF   MAY 

The  summer  airs  that  softly,  softly  creep 
Into  our  sails  along  the  southward  way, 
Draw  smooth  and  fair  adown  the  River  of  May. 

We  that  sit  still  as  marble-statued  Sleep, 

Move  with  our  image  through  the  hollow  deep 
In  the  clear  sapphire  of  the  azured  bay, 
And  scarce  a  word  to  one  another  say, 

Fearing  to  break  the  charm  the  high  heavens  keep. 

Build  me  a  castle  there  on  yonder  steep, 
With  wide  verandahs  in  the  delicate  air 
Of  jasmin  odors  and  of  orange  bowers! 

A  dream  so  fair  that  I  could  almost  weep 
To  see  my  vision  melt  in  distance  rare  - 
Like  a  lost  romance  of  the  Land  of  Flowers. 


IN  ARCADIA 

Morning  is  up,  and  on  the  woods  a-bloom 
Moves  in  the  splendor  of  each  jeweled  tear 
Bedropt  with  fire  to  deck  an  Ethiop's  ear,— 

Night  slowly  driven  through  the  gorge's  gloom 


162  temorial  Bofame 


Under  the  dark-tuft  hills  of  piney  plume. 

Behold  the  shepherds  and  their  loves  in  fear 

Gathered  around  an  old  man  pointing  here 
The  half-effaced  inscription  on  a  tomb. 

There  Daphne  leans  upon  the  shoulder,  mute, 

Of  her  bowed  lover  with  the  idle  lute, 
Straining  to  catch  the  meaning,  shadier, 

By  foreign  speech  that  moulders  to  decay; 

ET  EGO  IN  ARKAD   ...   no  more  to-day  - 
"I,  too,  have  lived  in  your  Arcadia." 

A  NEW  YEAR'S   CALL 

The  glorious  sun  was  shining  in  the  east 

And  through  the  windows  of  the  Red  Room  poured 
A  flood  of  radiance  on  the  festive  board 

Where  all  the  world,  officially,  at  least, 

Paid  their  respects  unto  the  great  high  priest 
Of  social  politics,  when  coming  toward 
The  guest-room,  suddenly,  amid  the  horde 

Of  brilliant  callers,  an  unbidden  guest! 

The  dark  intruder  came  into  the  room, 

But  neither  spoke  nor  smiled:  the  sunny  air 
Grew  chill  at  his  approach,  and  like  a  pall 

Upon  the  mansion  fell  oppressive  gloom. 
Though  not  invited,  yet  on  business  there, 
Death  at  the  White  House  made  his  New  Year's  call, 

VALE! 

Fallen  is  the  first  and  chief: 
Oh!  but  our  hearts  are  full  of  grief. 
Bowed  in  silence,  stand  and  wait 
Where  he  lies  in  lofty  state. 


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Who  hath  any  words  to  say? 
Grief  is  eloquent  to-day. 
On  the  door-knob  put  no  crape, 
But  your  hearts  in  mourning  drape. 
Death  lifts  up  the  portal  bar, 
Droop  the  flag  and  dress  the  car. 
Slowly  move  in  sad  array, 
Bring  him  on  his  last  long  way. 
The  veiled  cities  see  him  pass, 
Bow  their  heads  and  cry  alas! 
Useless,  useless,  toll  no  bell, 
He  is  better  —  in  fact,  well. 
Healed  of  all  his  hurts  and  scars, 
Honorably  discharged  from  wars. 
He  is  sleeping,  don't  you  see? 
Wake  him  not!  Oh,  let  him  be. 


NOVEMBER 

Is  it  altered  mood  or  landscape? 
Change  of  time,  or  clime  or  season? 
Brown  leaves  drifting  on  the  water? 
Shooting-stars,  or  infant  hoarfrost 
That's  November? 

Is  it  mist  and  fog  prevailing? 
White  fog  moving  up  the  valley, 
Ghost  of  many  a  coming  snow-storm! 
Great  fires  roaring  up  the  chimney 
At  Thanksgiving? 

O,  our  world  is  best  and  brightest 
Some  fine  morning  in  November. 


164  lemorial  Bolume 


Nature  gives  us  then  a  rare  day! 
Just  an  Indian  Summer  picture 
On  the  easel. 

Misty  vales  and  blue  vales  slumber 
In  a  light  subdued  and  golden. 
Earth  is  like  some  fair  Madonna 
Touched  with  suffering  and  mild  sorrow 
In  her  features. 

And  the  days,  like  veiling  women, 
Come  and  go  with  noiseless  footsteps, 
Sad  as  heroines  of  Ossian, 
Dimly  shining  ghosts  around  the 
Graves  of  kindred. 

Farewell,  lovely  apparitions! 
Dreams  of  youth  and  love,  farewell! 
Ye,  too,  are  but  ghosts  that  wander 
Round  the  ruins  of  some  roof-tree 
Fallen,  perished! 

Beautiful  the  blazing  hearthstone 
Where  domestic  love  enshrined  is! 
Like  a  constant  Pharos  beaming 
Is  the  home  love  in  the  haven 
Of  contentment. 

But  short-lived  is  human  passion, 
Brief  as  meteors  in  November! 
Crossing  loves  that  shine  a  minute, 
Jack-o-lanterns  to  the  traveler 
Late  in  Autumn. 


ffioemg  of  ffiifrn  ^atoatp 165 

Lost  are  churches,  trees  and  buildings 
In  the  fog  like  politicians! 
These  are  fighting  over  shadows, 
While  Corruption's  ghost  gigantic 
Stalks  the  Capitol. 


DAWN 

Like  Spring's  first  breath,  or  like  the  glowing,  bright 
Softness  of  youth,  with  down  upon  its  cheek, 
Comes  the  white  dawn  that  grows  a  blushing  streak 

When  Nature  turns  in  living  slumber  dight 

To  the  sun's  kiss,  and  breathes  the  morning  light. 
In  pasture  meads  the  slumbering  kine  awake, 
Sheep  on  the  dewy  hill-sides  their  short  fast  break, 

And  out-door  life  gets  on  its  feet  upright. 

To  us  who  live  as  in  stone  coffins  sealed, 

Thick  walls  and  curtains,  roofs  that  ward  the  stroke 

Of  glory  off,  the  dawn  is  not  revealed 
Save  to  the  early-stirring  market  folk. 
Splendors  of  beauty  earth  and  heaven  fulfill: 
Man's  world  is  wrapt  in  swinish  slumber  still. 


HOW   STILL  THE   LAND! 

The  land,  how  still!  how  soft  and  fair 
The  tender,  pensive,  golden  air! 
What  network  of  a  shining  haze 
Envelopes  earth  and  all  her  ways! 
What  dimness  over  all  the  sky 
Like  a  suffused  and  dreamy  eye! 


166  Memorial 


What  moving  lights  upon  the  flood, 
What  fallen  rainbows  in  the  wood! 
How  smooth  the  crag,  what  waters  pass 
A-twinkle  in  the  emerald  grass! 
And  lo,  mid  halcyon  seas  at  rest 
Appear  what  Islands  of  the  Blest! 
Come  spirit-laden  barks  that  bring 
The  odors  of  a  western  spring! 
Come,  with  the  mild  south-western  breeze 
That  whispers  through  the  glowing  trees; 
Tell  us  of  buried  lore  in  mounds, 
And  of  the  happy  hunting  grounds, 
Traditions  of  our  Indian  Troy 
Devoutly  held  by  man  and  boy 
Ere  telegraphs  and  railroads  came 
To  put  belief  to  rout  and  shame. 


MILESTONES 

Another  milestone  on  life's  journey  passed, 

Another  year  is  added  to  the  score 

Of  all  the  years  that  still  have  gone  before 
Like  mountain-shadows  on  the  pale  sky  cast. 
Still  I  press  onward  to  the  very  last, 

And  soon  my  feet  will  touch  the  solemn  shore 

Of  Time  forgotten,  and  the  Nevermore  - 
The  bodiless  terror  of  the  vague  and  vast. 

How  thrills  the  spirit  standing  on  the  verge 
Of  that  dread  ocean  which  we  call  the  Unknown! 

Why  do  we  tremble  at  the  severing  surge, 
And  pace  the  strand  until  the  time  be  flown? 

Cast  of!  the  lines  —  not  yet!     I  dare  not  urge 
My  bark  adventurous  on  that  sea  alone. 


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A  CAUCUS  AT  THE   CAPITOL 

One  morning  lately,  in  the  month  of  June, 
Bending  alone  above  my  'customed  task, 

The  windows  open,  and  the  world  in  tune, 
And  all  things  pleasant  as  a  soul  could  ask, 

I  heard  a  sound  of  trouble  rising  there, 

As  if  a  storm  were  brewing  in  the  air. 

It  seemed  so  strange  in  that  deep-windowed  niche 
Where  always  reigned  the  spirit  of  repose, 

As  calm  as  any  summer's  morning,  which 

Breathed  still  content  like  a  full-hearted  rose, 

There  could  be  any  room  for  care  on  earth, 

Or  any  trouble  there  could  have  its  birth. 

But  trouble  was  —  and  something  like  a  row, 
Because  some  workmen  on  a  staging  there 

Had  clambered  up,  and  roughly,  I  allow, 

Gone  round  the  caps  of  the  great  pillars  where 

The  tribe  of  sparrows  dwelt,  and  put  to  rout 

The  inmates,  spoiled  their  nests,  and  cleaned  them  out. 

Now  that  was  reason,  and  sufficient  cause 

To  hold  an  indignation  meeting  there; 
For  birds  have  legislatures,  too,  and  laws. 

A  thousand  sparrows  caucusing  in  air, 
Made  noise  enough,  and,  if  you  trust  the  birds, 
They  had  reporters  to  take  down  their  words. 

To  do  them  justice,  the  reporter  states, 
They  undisturbed  for  many  years  had  lain 

In  foliaged  capitals,  with  their  happy  mates, 
They  held  by  right  of  eminent  domain: 

And  of  this  right  they  made  as  good  a  show 

As  t'other  congress  sitting  down  below. 


168  Memorial  Volume 

To  be  thrown  out  of  such  a  handsome  berth, 
Nor  gods  nor  men  nor  capitals  can  bear  I 

True  to  their  English  pluck  and  native  worth, 
The  sparrows  rallied  then  in  caucus  there, 

Red  hot  with  speeches,  and  with  big  resolves 

To  have  their  rights  as  long  as  earth  revolves. 

According,  then,  to  old,  time-honored  ways, 
They  chose  a  speaker  of  distinguished  air, 

Upon  whose  front,  as  one  John  Milton  says, 
"Deliberation  sat  and  public  care." 

He  seemed  a  feathered  Conkling  by  his  swell, 

And  what  he  said,  will  your  reporter  tell. 

1  'My  feathered  fellow-citizens :  I  feel 

Too  deeply,  far,  the  great  and  grievous  wrong 

We  all  have  suffered  'neath  the  barbarous  heel 
Of  our  inhuman  foe  —  I  put  it  strong. 

It  is  a  case  of  tyranny  confest, 

A  public  wrong  —  how  shall  it  be  redrest? 

Here  have  we  lived,  and  labored  for  the  space 
Of  many  moons,  and  still  through  weal  and  woe 

Our  little  colony  has  thrived  apace, 

Till  now  we  are  a  nation,  as  you  know; 

And  ranging  freely  everywhere,  at  will, 

Have  had  the  freedom  of  the  city  still. 

And  some  of  us,  by  nature  apt  to  seize 
A  coigne  of  vantage,  in  these  architraves 

Have  made  our  beds,  for  love  of  greater  ease, 
Or  nobler  prospect  where  the  living  waves 

Of  verdure  flow,  like  joys  of  Paradise, 

Beneath  the  morning  and  the  evening  skies. 


of    ^tt  £abar  169 


What  harm  do  we  among  the  acanthus  leaves 
Sitting,  of  these  fair  capitals,  by  day? 

Who  bound  and  capt  these  lofty  pillowed  sheaves, 
And  ranged  in  order  due,  I  cannot  say: 

But  this  I  know,  that  we  were  sitting  here 

In  full  conclave,  for  many  a  long-past  year. 

Here  have  we  mated,  lodged,  and  reared  our  young; 

Here,  too,  have  met,  absorbed  in  graver  cares; 
And  no  one  yet  has  ever  said  or  sung 

That  we  have  interfered  in  men's  affairs. 
Suppose  some  insolent  and  giant  hand 
Should  throw  their  houses  down  at  a  command. 

To  think  what  pains  and  trouble  we  have  had 
Collecting  stuff  for  birdling's  nest  most  meet! 

Going  and  coming  every  day,  as  glad 

To  gather  drift  and  flotsam  of  the  street. 

And  now  behold  the  wreck!     Our  souls  are  hurt 

At  so  much  broken  plaster,  straw  and  dirt. 

"I  move"  said  one,  and  here  the  speaker  frowned, 
"A  board  of  audit  to  present  our  bills." 

What  more  he  said,  was  in  an  instant  drowned 
In  general  clamor  of  conflicting  wills. 

The  motion  was  clean  out  of  order,  for 

The  speaker  said,  "My  voice  is  still  for  war!" 

"Unheard  of  ravage!  ruffian  spoil,  and  wrong:— 

I  feel  it,  yes,  in  my  prophetic  heart; 
The  inhuman  foe  shall  suffer  for't  —  ere  long 

An  earthquake  shock  shall  rend  these  walls  apart; 
And  the  great  dome,  which  thunder  cannot  shake, 
Shall,  like  an  air-blown  bubble,  burst  and  break." 


170  Memorial  Volume 

The  speaker  sat;  and  such  a  murmur  rose 
As  when  the  wind  of  autumn  loudly  grieves 

In  forest  aisles,  or  in  a  gyre  it  goes, 

And  skyward  casts  the  red  and  rustling  leaves. 

So  all  the  birds  rose  up  on  whirring  wing, 

And  made  great  noise  with  angry  chattering. 

How  many  a  shaft  of  feathered  wit  flew  round, 
How  all  the  air  was  full  of  '  'winged  words," 

And  how  the  bird-shot  rattled  on  the  ground 
Of  man's  tyrannic  folly  over  birds  :— 

I  have  not  time  to  tell,  but  merely  state, 

The  resolve  of  all  this  loud  debate. 

The  birds  resolved  —  what  could  they  less  than  we?— 
Against  the  invasion  of  their  ancient  right; 

Denounced  the  spoilers  of  their  own  roof-tree, 

And  claimed  that  when  they  wished  to  build,  they 
might. 

Upholding  rights  in  their  maintenance  strong 

As  the  supporting  pillars  —  theirs  so  long. 

6  'Resolved,  that  we  have  come  to  build  and  stay 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  nation's  dome; 

And  here  in  spite  of  what  men  do  and  say, 
We  will  defend  our  Capitoline  Rome!" 

So,  to  repair  their  nests  they  quickly  turned, 

Passed  the  appropriation  bills,  and  then  —  adjourned. 

How  feathered  wit  at  human  weakness  spurned! 
How  all  the  weapons  of  debate  were  turned! 


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MAY  DAY  IN  WASHINGTON,  1894 

Somewhat  abroad,  a  stirring  air,  to-day, 
Moves  in  a  common  purpose  underneath 
Men's  calm  exterior  like  a  sword  in  sheath, 

With  which  it  might  be  dangerous  to  play! 

'Tis  like  a  dash  of  upflung  ocean  spray 

Which,  to  shore-walker  catching  of  his  breath, 
Tastes  of  the  terror,  too,  of  sudden  death 

Coming  to  meet  the  multitude  half-way! 

Industrial?     Armies  rising  everywhere 
Like  clouds  that  darken  the  horizon  wall, 
Or  birds  of  prey  wide-hovering  in  the  air, 

Wait  but  the  signal  from  their  leader's  call. 
Will  they,  in  overwhelming  force  prepare 
To  swoop  down  on  the  nation's  Capital? 

A  CUP  OF  COFFEE 

Whoever  wishes  to  remove  the  ban 
Of  labor  harsh  and  rude,  or  being  o'er 
Fatigued  with  travel,  is  a-thirst,  faint,  sore, 

Let  him  drink  coffee;  find  thee  out  who  can, 

Thou  best  conserver  of  the  strength  of  man  ! 
It  soothes  the  mind,  and  it  exhilarates  more 
The  vital  spirits,  warming  to  the  core 

Of  manhood,  as  electric  currents  ran 

Throughout  the  frame,  yet  harmless  all  and  good. 
For  no  depression  follows,  none  of  that 
Horrible  sinking  at  the  pit  caved  in 

Through  alcoholic,  concentrated  food. 
The  Turk  cross-legged  sitting  on  a  mat 
And  sipping  coffee  Paradise  doth  win. 


172  memorial  Bolume 


LIGHT  OUT  OF   CLOUDS 

Dreary  and  dull  and  wet  and  cold 

Was  that  drizzly  Autumn  day; 
And  men  and  women  went  about 

In  a  spiritless  sort  of  way. 
And  the  bright  leaves  whereunto  they  clung, 
No  life  nor  motion  had,  but  hung 

Dejected  on  the  spray. 

But  lo!  a  glorious  light  divine 

In  the  tabernacle  of  the  sun! 
For  the  cloudy  veil  of  heaven  was  rent 

When  the  day  was  almost  done. 
And  the  meanest  man  who  walked  the  street 
Had  an  air  majestical  and  meet 

In  the  face  of  that  shining  one! 

For  all  things  noble,  fair  and  sweet 
Bloomed  when  the  day  was  done; 

The  great  round  world  appeared  to  rest 
Upon  a  victory  won: 

And  women  looked  like  angels  bright 

In  the  solemn  and  pathetic  light 
Of  the  dying  Autumn  sun! 

How  many  lives  on  earth  are  passed 

Like  a  dreary  autumn  day! 
Dark,  clouded  lives,  but  at  the  last, 

There  comes  a  golden  ray. 
Oppressed  is  virtue  often  here, 
But  in  the  breast  the  light  grows  clear 

Of  the  shining  heavenly  way! 


of  ^vfyn  ^abarp 


And  they  who  fought  the  battle  sore 

Shall  joy  in  victory  won; 
And  they  shall  have  a  glorious  rest 

From  toil  and  duty  done: 
And  they  shall  walk  the  golden  street, 
And  the  beautiful  day  shall  never  fleet, 

For  God  will  be  their  sun! 


SONNET-WRITING 

Choose,    you    would    say,    some    great    and    spacious 

theme  — 

Muse  deep,  soar  high,  and  in  your  own  dominion 
Look  to  the  end  rushed  on  with  mighty  pinion: 

Pursue  the  path  —  as  of  a  pure  sunbeam 

In  darkness  and  the  doubtfulness  of  dream  — 
To  conquest  held  in  no  man's  vain  opinion, 
But  in  full  mastery  of  the  muse's  minion, 

Play  with  the  subject,  and  your  pledge  redeem. 
You  either  can,  or  else  you  cannot  write; 
Granted  the  power,  and  flash  of  true  insight, 

What  Hugo  said  is  true  —  the  power  is  all. 
A  friend  observed,  '  'How  difficult  to  indite 
Your  lofty  poems  1"     '  'Ay,  as  hard  to  write 

As  'tis  for  suns  to  shine,  winds  blow,  or  snows  to  fall." 


THE   PHYSICIANS  TO  DEATH 

Along  the  path  of  convalescence,  skaith 

And  Danger  stand  with  daggers  drawn  at  cast 
Against  the  life  in  perils  thick  and  fast. 

Foes  to  recovery,  as  the  wise  leech  saith, 


174  Memorial 


They  stand  to  nick  the  thread  and  stop  the  breath. 
So  many  posts  of  danger  being  passed, 
We  thought  our  patient  had  escaped  the  last 

Where  lay  in  ambush  the  sharpshooter  Death. 

But  Death  this  time,  I  guess  we  nicked  him,  ha! 
We  damped  his  powder,  and  we  spoilt  his  aim; 
If  we  could  put  that  bullet  in  his  wame 

Which  our  friend  carries,  with  a  big  hurrah 
The  land  would  rise  with  Science  at  our  back 
And  run  old  i  'Skull  and  Crossbones"  off  the  track! 


I 
THE   SWORD 

Kept,  like  the  conscience,  without  spot  or  stain, 
This  blade  by  him,  when  battle  erst  was  on, 
Was  worn,  the  service  sword  of  Washington! 

When  first  was  tried  its  temper,  he  in  main 

Pursuit  of  peace  and  honor,  was  a  plain 
Virginia  Colonel  of  militia,  gone 
To  carve  out  empire  greater  than,  anon, 

Was  that  of  Caesar  or  of  Charlemagne. 

And  truly  this  imperial  domain 

Stretching  from  sea  to  sea,  from  dark  to  dawn, 

Mother  and  mold  of  States  that  from  the  brain 
Of  Power  and  Wisdom  sprang  —  was  a  foregone 

Conclusion,  like  that  constant  one  beside 

The  Sword  of  Washington — Liberty,  his  bride. 


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II 
THE   STAFF 

As  once  JEneas  on  his  broad  and  great 

Shoulders  redeemed  and  bore  from  burning  Troy 
His  Sire  and  country  gods,  a  fearful  joy, 

So  didst  thou  carry  the  vast  orb  of  fate, 

Stooping  beneath  the  New  World's  weary  weight 
Of  Revolution,  half  thy  work,  no  toy, 
But  task  of  strain  beyond  Alcmaeon's  boy, 

Fit  for  main  pillar  of  our  rising  state. 

And  well  thou  stayed  thy  steps  with  staff  in  hand, 
Even  the  dear  love  of  thy  native  land. 

Leader,  in  Europe,  of  the  great  revolt, 
Sublimely  simple,  as  himself,  let  stand 

The  verse  :  From  heaven  he  snatched  the  thunderbolt, 
And  eke  the  sceptre  from  the  tyrant's  hand. 

Ill 
ENVOI 

Prometheus  of  the  modern  age!  who,  in  the  van 
Of  thunderstorms  unfurling  Freedom's  grand 
Banner,  stood  forth  against  the  red  right  hand 
Of  Jove  and  other  tyrants;  since  what  ran 
Wildfire  he  seized  —  power  held  for  use  of  man, 
Serving  the  common  weal:   in  a  free  land 

Let  the  First  Citizen  of  the  New  World  stand, 
Exemplar  yet  to  all  who  know  and  can. 

O  stars,  which  lead  the  constellated  train 
Of  our  heroic  age!  auspicious  twain! 


176  emorial  Bolume 


Benignly  shed  your  influence  on  the  state 
Whose  emblem  is  that  sword  and  staff!  O  great 
Twin  brethren  hail!  joint  authors  of  our  fates, 
Fulfil  the  destiny  of  the  United  States. 

Now  choked  with  dead,  unrecognizable! 

Some  elemental  force,  then,  fault  or  fraud 

Of  nature,  say  her  paroxysmal  kiss 

Of  violent  contraries,  fire  and  water  mixed 

With  kneading  clay,  the  silt  and  sifted  ash 

Of  centuries  accumulate,  until,  at  length, 

The  superincumbent  mass  in  dropping  down 

By  sheer  dead  weight  of  matter,  caked  and  baked 

By  frost,  fire,  thunder,  hail  and  rain,  and  snow 

Must  seek  an  outlet,  vent,  or  fumerole, 

And  then  the  explosion  —  that  was  unforeseen  ! 

How  like  a  very  thief  by  night  it  came 

Upon  the  sleeping  city's  ten  times  ten 

Thousand  poor  souls!  a  multitude  of  slain, 

Great  clouds  of  dust,  and  "heaps  of  carcasses; 

No  end  of  corpses  which  they  stumble  over," 

The  men  of  yesterday.     One  enormous  heave 

Toppled  the  mountain  diademed  with  towers, 

Splitting  the  rocks  and  throwing  down  the  walls 

To  this  half  buried  city  of  the  plain, 

Like  other  cities  the  Old  Testament 

Has  made  a  monument,  and  a  mockery  of; 

War,  famine,  pestilence,  earthquake  where 

The  jackal  prowls,  and  the  lone  bittern  booms 

By  pools  of  water  and  mere  rubbish  heaps, 

A  desolation  to  the  desert-born. 

Are  the  Gods  angry?  Earth  has  got  beyond 

This  question  now,  which  Nature  answers  here 


of    tofH  £atoar  177 


By  readjustment,  aye  by  striking  down 

Whole  provinces  and  populations  gone; 

Much  as  an  angry  lad  with  spurning  foot 

Scatters  an  ant-hill,  or  to  be  more  just, 

As  a  fine  gentleman  with  a  walking-stick 

Goes  lopping  thistle-tops  while  sauntering  on. 

And  after  all,  quoth  our  geologist, 

What  was  it  but  an  alteration  slight 

Of  dipping  strata,  causing  the  earth's  crust 

To  crack  and  yawn  where  seamed  and  riven  by 

Upheaval  of  the  molten  mass  beneath, 

Local  disturbance  following  hard  upon 

Continued  pressure,  actual  subsidence. 

Whereat  the  astronomer,  nodding  sagely,  thus: 

"No  doubt  the  earthquake,  killing  men  like  flies, 

Came  from  the  shifting  strata,  as  you  say. 

The  when  and  where  of  the  tremendous  fault 

In  the  beginning,  we  may  never  know; 

We  can't  see  through  the  earth,  but  we  conclude  — 

Noting  the  clock  of  the  celestial  signs, 

And  not  forgetting  the  great  hand  of  fate 

In  turning  over  a  new  leaf  within 

This  ancient  rock-ribbed  volume  of  the  earth, 

Once  in  a  thousand  years  —  it  happens  so." 

How  much  depends  upon  the  point  of  view! 

The  ancient  prophet  and  the  modern  seer, 

Though  differing  in  opinion,  might  agree 

That  knowledge  is  not  wisdom,  and  that  faith 

In  things  unseen  may  travel  far  beyond 

The  level  line  of  understanding,  eyes 

Looking  straight  out  to  see  what  they  can  see, 

Orderly  succession  and  phenomena, 

But  never  yet  were  known  to  '  'enter  in 


178  jttemorial  Bolume 

To  the  prophetic  soul  of  the  wide  world 

Dreaming  of  things  to  come"-  -  nay,  heaping  scorn 

On  them  that  walk  in  dream  and  vision  such 

As  John  in  Patmos  saw,  when  he  beheld 

Death  on  the  pale  horse  sitting  where,  of  old 

Uprose  that  lofty  peak,  or  promontory 

Opposite  Trinacria,  on  that  high  plateau 

Back  of  Messina,  and  commanding  still 

The  noblest  and  the  grandest  prospect,  nigh 

All  of  Calabria,  half  of  Sicily, 

With  Etna  in  the  background,  and  in  front 

The  sea  sailed  over  by  ^Eneas,  erst 

His  legendary  voyage,  with  the  young 

lulus  and  the  household  gods  of  Troy; 

Detained  at  Carthage  by  the  love-sick  Queen 

Until  the  herald  of  the  most  high  Jove 

Sent  him  to  Italy,  and  his  future  home. 

Such  was  the  chosen  spot,  the  fitting  scene 

And  scenery  of  the  greatest  tragedy 

Ever  enacted  on  this  earth,  the  stage 

Of  our  Globe  theatre  whose  mighty  wings 

Embrace  the  heavens,  and  also  the  hells, 

With  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  underworld, 

And  all  the  hosts  of  Heaven  in  looking  on. 

Doubt  not  the  stage  was  set,  the  actors  cast 

For  all  the  several  parts  to  them  assigned, 

As  Frost,  Fire,  Thunder,  Earth,  and  Sea,  and  Air 

Which  royal  actors  and  their  retinue, 

Scorning  the  Circus  Maximus  as  low, 

The  petty  Roman  Amphitheatre, 

Its  tauromachia  and  naufragic  art 

As  quite  contemptible,  could  afford  to  wait, 

And  waiting  stood  the  signal  to  begin; 


of  S^&tt  £atoarp  179 


And  when  the  curtain  rose  at  five  o'clock 

That  dark  December  morn,  together  struck 

The  world  aghast  as  at  the  stroke  of  doom! 

"And  lo,  there  was  a  great  earthquake!"    See! 

Up  yonder  on  the  crest  there  looking  down 

The  dream  come  true,  the  vision  of  the  grim 

Phantom  on  horseback,  on  the  heights  that  crowned 

Messina  and  the  straits!     'Tis  my  belief 

Death  on  the  pale  horse  overlooking  saw 

The  shore  and  sea  one  desolation,  all 

The  crash  and  thunder  of  the  roaring  surge  - 

And  in  the  angel's  hand  the  Flying  Roll 

Bearing  the  seven  plagues  within  its  folds, 

Having  the  red  seal  of  Apocalypse, 

And  on  its  face  the  stamp  of  signet  ring, 

The  great  Justicier  of  heaven  and  earth 

Proclaiming  from  his  judgment  seat  the  law 

Of  retribution,  and  the  solemn  truth 

Of  solidarity  that  forever  stamps 

The  crime  of  nature  as  the  crime  of  man. 

This  thing,  if  true,  is  most  important.,  sir; 
But  though  we  cannot  at  this  time  of  day 
Presume  to  wrap  the  prophet's  mantle  round 
Our  shoulders,  or  to  cut  and  trim  our  speech 
After  the  bearded  wisdom  of  the  old 
Philosophers,  nor  as  the  tragic  poets  did, 
To  wield  the  thunderbolts  of  angry  Jove, 
By  terror  and  by  pity  thus  to  purge 
The  souls  of  men  (as  Aristotle  saith), 
Not  to  be  laughed  at,  yet  upon  the  stage 
Men  look  and  ask  for  the  spectacular. 
Here,  not  the  fact,  the  telling  circumstance, 


180  jftemorial  Bolume 

The  "moving  accident  by  field  and  flood" 

Is  most  important.     The  receding  sea 

Goes  backward  like  a  runner  ere  he  makes 

His  rapid  headlong  dash  and  forward  stride, 

Bearing  in  open  palm  the  steel-clad  ship 

Far  inland,  and  with  loud  thundering  noise 

Of  many  waters  and  of  covering  waves, 

A  mantle  spreads  voluminous  and  vast, 

Enveloping  this  one  world-wide  distress, 

Hiding  the  ruin  and  the  ravage  all 

In  human  pity's  cloak  of  sympathy. 

And  as  one  spies  a  lovely  blooming  flower 

In  rents  of  ruin,  or  beside  a  tomb, 

So  here  one  saw  in  a  deserted  square 

Messina's  joy,  a  pretty  child  who  bore 

A  pet  canary  perched  on  finger-tip, 

Escaped  the  horror  of  the  prison  house, 

And  destined  yet  to  live  as  long,  let's  hope, 

As  Lesbia's  sparrow  in  Catullus'  song! 

But  those  who  saw  and  heard  as  lookers-on 

Describe  the  impression  made  on  mind  and  eye, 

By  the  first  shock,  as  simultaneous  with 

A  multitude  of  jolting  chariots, 

That  starting  all  at  once  with  leap  and  bound 

Went  up  and  down  upon  the  rocking  earth 

Endlessly  raving,  rushing,  roaring  on. 

In  plain  and  simple  words,  the  appearance  was 

"Like  rattling  chariots,"  even  "they  (that)  leap 

On  the  top  of  the  mountains"; 

"Like  horsemen  do  they  run: 

They  run  with  torches,  and  like  lightnings  shine. 

They  run  through  the  city; 

They  run  upon  the  wall; 


of  S^fJH  Jbatoarp 


They  climb  up  upon  the  houses; 

They  enter  in  at  the  windows,  like  a  thief. 

The  earth  quaketh  before  them, 

And  the  heavens  tremble: 

The  sun  and  the  moon  are  darkened, 

And  the  stars  withdraw  their  shining." 

"Your  old  men  shall  dream  dreams; 

Your  young  men  shall  see  visions. 

And  I  will  show  them  (in  those  days), 

Wonders  in  the  heavens  and  in  the  earth; 

Blood  and  fire,  and  pillars  of  smoke. 

The  sun  shall  be  turned  into  darkness, 

And  the  moon  into  blood, 

For  the  day  of  Jehovah  cometh; 

It  is  nigh!  the  great  and  the  terrible  day, 

A  day  of  darkness  and  gloominess, 

A  day  of  clouds  and  thick  darkness." 

(Under  the  similitude  of  a  mighty  host, 

An  army  of  locusts  invades  the  land.) 

*  *A  fire  devoureth  before  them, 

And  behind  them  a  flame  burneth; 

The  land  is  as  the  garden  of  Eden  before  them, 

And  behind  them  a  desolate  wilderness! 

Yea,  nothing  escapeth  them." 

So  far,  in  borrowed  phrase  and  biblical, 

In  speech  direct,  straightforward,  to  the  point 

(Not  Dante's  more  clean-cut  and  aquiline), 

The  prophet  Joel  here  tells,  or  foretells, 

The  desolation  of  the  land  of  Judah, 

And  the  destruction  of  Jerusalem. 


182  Memorial 


How  vividly  to  sense  and  soul  portrayed  ! 

One  sees  the  running  and  the  leaping  of 

The  archers  on  the  walls,  both  sees  and  hears 

The  crackling  of  the  flame  of  fire  devour 

The  stubble.     And  the  tremendous  climax, 

The  coming  up  of  a  numerous  people  and  a  strong, 

"Like  a  mighty  host  set  in  battle  array. 

Before  them  the  people  tremble, 

And  all  faces  gather  blackness." 

Ancient  conceptions  these,  and  all  surcharged 

With  the  highest  moral  indignation. 

But  modern  writer,  must  not  he  employ 

In  modern  speech  the  symbols  of  his  time? 

No  chariot  races  here,  but  somewhat  else; 

So,  to  come  nearer  home,  and  to  compare 

Great  things  with  small,  hark!  the  honking  horn, 

The  rustling,  hustling  rogue,  with  noisy  blast 

Of  the  joy-riders  tuning  up  their  red 

Devil-wagon  when  they  give  the  loud  ha!  ha! 

And  with  speedmania,  reckless  of  aught  else, 

In  crowded  thoroughfare  go  whizzing  by. 

A  myriad  such,  like  demons  just  let  loose 

In  stony-hearted  London,  or  New  York, 

Were  nothing  to  an  earthquake,  in  as  far's 

The  knock-down  and  the  drag-out  business  goes. 

When  the  four  elements  in  battle  join 

The  hurly-burly,  earth  and  sea  and  air  - 

When  water  burns  and  billows  roll  with  fire, 

And  overhead  the  heaven's  great  war-drum  shakes 

The  bedlam  earth  as  at  the  crack  of  doom,— 

When  earth,  itself  unstable  as  the  sea, 

Affords  no  standing-room,  no  place  of  rest, 


of  Stofnt  Jtetoarp  iss 


City  of  refuge  none,  or  sanctuary, 
And  looking  to  the  hills  whence  cometh  help, 
Lo  there,  what  leaping  cataracts  of  fire 
Blow  all  their  bugles  from  the  craggy  steep! 

What  is  mere  man  to  question  or  to  quell 

Rebellious  Nature,  knowing  not  the  pangs 

Of  her  new  birth,  nor  why,  in  her  clear  spring 

And  fountain  spirit  of  all  good  and  ill 

So  moved  and  troubled  that  we  may  not  look 

To  see  our  Father's  face,  we  must  believe 

It  is  there  still,  though  hidden  by  the  frown 

Of  Providence  (by  some  mistaken  for 

The  great  doom's  image),  till  the  furrowed  face 

Clears  up  again,  and  all  men  recognize 

In  Him  the  final  and  efficient  cause 

Of  whatsoever  is,  and  what  shall  be. 

There  is  one  God,  though  at  such  robust  faith 

Men  stand  aghast,  no  Ahriman  but  he! 

Read  Jamblichus  and  Plato,  if  you  will, 

The  Zendavesta,  Koran,  K'ung  Fu-tsze, 

Bible  or  Bhagavad  Gita,  study, 

"Genesis  and  Geology"  peruse, 

Admit  the  Gnostics  to  your  council-board. 

No  Gnostic  I,  and  no  Agnostic,  please; 

Your  ignoramus  must  and  will  ignore 

All  second  causes  —  Matter  and  the  like, 

Demons  and  demiurgs  of  the  under-world,  — 

And  go  straight  back  to  the  Original: 

And  if  you  want  a  guide,  take  Johnson,  Sam, 

"Path,  motive,  guide,  original,  and  end." 

Maybe  this  faith  and  doctrine  of  the  old 

Monotheistic  and  hebraic  cult 


184  lemorial  Volume 


May  seem  too  rigid  and  strait-laced  to  suit 
The  easy-going  morals  of  our  time; 
Yet  Judah's  prophet  held  it,  and  for  one, 
I  find  it  bold,  consistent,  and  sincere; 
Consistent  with  the  unity  of  God; 
And  bold  as  novel,  banishing,  as  it  does, 
To  limbo  of  the  Moon  the  rubbish-heaps 
Of  pagan  learning  and  of  pagan  lore; 
Mere  old  wives'  tales  and  silly  fables  they, 
Of  which  one  instance  is,  ex  pede,  all: 
The  Grecian  poets  feigned  Enceladus, 
Turned  over  on  his  side  when  y£tna  groaned! 
'  'But  we  know  the  whole  creation  groaneth, 
And  travaileth  in  pain  together  (until)  now." 
And  if  the  little  that  we  know  be  next 
To  nothing  that  is  known  of  what  goes  on 
Within  the  dark  interior  of  the  earth, 
No  need  of  giants,  Vulcans  and  the  rest, 
No  Titans  warring  with  the  gods  of  old, 
But  say  at  once  the  great  earthquake  came  - 
Came  with  the  roar  of  a  thousand  battles, 
And  with  the  rattling  fire  of  a  million 
Maxim  guns.     Suddenly,  out  of  the  earth 
Raising  up  its  unimaginable 
Phantom  form,  shaking  its  gory  locks  at  all 
The  living,  and  looking  round  on  all 
The  dead,  whom  it  persuaded  then  to  join 
The  vast  and  numberless  Asiatic  hordes 
Long  since  gone  down  to  hades  with  the  rest 
Of  warring  demigods  and  tyrants  old 
Of  Syracuse  and  Sidon,  Carthage,  Rome! 
Fit  shroud  and  burial  it  well  beseemed 
Calabria  and  the  towns  along  the  coast 


of    ton  £atoar  185 


Of  mournful  wreck  and  devastation  where 
Tremendous  JEtna  hung  its  funeral  pall. 
But  ah!  the  trembling,  quivering  mother  Earth  - 
Who  can  describe  its  billowing,  not  unlike 
The  ground-swell  of  the  sea  before  a  storm  ? 
Who  dare  to  picture  and  to  body  forth 
The  painted  horror  on  men's  faces,  fear  — 
The  panic  fear  of  flying  multitudes 
Before  the  awful  apparition  seen 
Vast  as  the  Brocken  spectre  of  the  Harz, 
Black  as  the  Angel  of  the  Pit  that  stood 
Medusa-like,  and  with  its  gorgon  stare 
Chained  up  all  motion,  and  with  horror  froze 
The  life-blood  of  the  living,  who  became 
Mere  stocks  and  stones  amid  the  splitting  walls 
Of  ruined  roof-trees,  huts  and  palaces; 
Comprising  in  one  volume  all  that  makes 
This  human  document  of  immortal  woe, 
This  latest  awful  tragedy  of  time, 
Enrolled  with  Pompeii  and  St.  Pierre, 
The  warning  and  the  wonder  of  the  world. 

APOLOGUE 

RIVER  AND  FOUNTAIN 

One  day  a  murmur  of  the  swollen  tide 
Of  a  great  River  reached  a  Fountain's  ear; 
And  like  a  rude  and  bold  intrusive  guest 
Derisive  said,  "How  little  you  produce!" 
The  Fountain  mused  a  moment  and  replied: 
"But  men  prefer  me  cold  and  crystal  clear 
To  turbid  torrent  which  is  not  the  best 
For  conversation  or  for  table  use." 


186  jftemoriai  Volume 


NIGHT 

Most  ancient  Night,  majestic,  sad,  and  stour, 
The  stars  surround  thee  on  thy  ebon  throne! 

Darkness  obeys  thee,  and  the  winds  have  power, 
Through  might  and  magic  of  thy  sovereign  tone. 

Thy  trumpet  is  the  midnight  storm  whose  clangor 
Shatters  the  silent  world  and  stately  wood : 

Thy  brow's  fierce  light  is  but  a  passing  anger 
That  leaves  thee  still  in  thy  serener  mood. 


(FRAGMENT) 

Now,  when  repose  is  at  the  height 
Of  Nature's  peaceful  pantomime, 
The  bees  are  murmuring  in  the  lime: 
* 'Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright!" 
Two  things  exert  their  magic  might  - 
Sweetness  and  light. 

"Sweetness  and  Light"-  -  there  is  a  time 
Which,  like  the  Autumn's  mellow  clime, 
Was  made  for  joys  of  soul  and  sight, 
For  beauty  and  for  calm  delight, 
For  pleasure  of  the  poet's  rhyme, 
For  musing  on  the  vanished  prime 
Of  Youth,  which  hears  the  distant  chime 
Of  Sabbath  bells  in  memory's  light  — 
Sweetness  and  Light. 


of        n  J>atoar  187 


THE  LOCUST 

No,  was  it  that?  the  terrible  cry 

Like  the  cry  of  two  armies  joined  in  the  onset? 

For  the  locust  sang  WAR:  and  it  used  to  be  said  that 

In  war-time  the  locust  carried  that  letter 

Borne  on  his  wing,  a  great  W —  sheer  superstition ! 

But  the  heat  might  suggest  the  great  heat  of  battle, 

That  shrill  burning  cry,  the  cry  of  the  onset, 

And  something  move  like  the  crack  of  saltpetre  — 

The  locust's  dry  rattle  which  rolls  a  long  volley  — 

And  gunner,  with  linstock  at  the  hot  muzzle, 

Swabbing  his  gun;  the  red  wrath  of  artillery, 

Men  dying  of  thirst  and  the  fever  of  wounds. 

But  the  valley  is  peaceful,  no  Monmouth  is  here, 

Though   it   might  have  been   here,  had   fate   but   so 

willed  it! 

Here,  standing  for  right  native  soil  and  the  homestead, 
This  green  furrowed  vale,  and  blue  sky  beyond, 
The  storm  of  battle  comes  and  lives  are  leaves 
In  the  red  whirlwind  to  be  borne  away. 
Oh,  not  for  this  the  human  spirit  grieves, 
Since  death  to  each  must  come  some  other  day. 
But  all  the  mourning  land  is  drowned  in  tears! 
For  the  rent  boughs  loud  sigh  the  ancestral  trees, 
Whose  wound  remains  and  does  not  heal  for  years; 
When  will  these  "wars  abhorred  of  mothers"  cease? 


188  emorial  Bolume 


GOING  TO  WAR— 1862 

Far  out  at  sea  —  and  bound  I  know  not  where — 

The  silent  world  is  lit  by  many  a  gleam; 

The  sea  rolls  gently,  and  the  wind  sits  fair, 

The  ship  moves  on  —  a  dream  within  a  dream  — 

So  soft,  so  still!     Its  feet  are  shod  with  wool, 

War's  furies  walking  o'er  a  world  of  graves: 

The  land's  iniquity  is  ripe  and  full, 

And  Vengeance  comes  at  last  with  sword  and  staves. 

But  what  have  I  to  do  with  civil  jars? 
A  scholar  bred  to  arts  and  used  to  calms, 
Why  am  I  here  supine  beneath  the  stars, 
Wrapped  in  my  soldier's  cloak  beside  my  arms? 

0  Duty,  Spartan  mother  stern  and  high! 
Must  I  go  forth  to  bleed,  to  fall,  to  die, 
Because  one  altar  still  must  blaze  and  burn? 

Then  Freedom,  hail!  a  willing  sacrifice, 

1  join  myself  unto  the  martyr-crew; 
It  swells  my  spirit  to  the  Roman  size, 
To  think,  my  Country,  I  can  die  for  you ! 
I  hear,  and  not  in  vain,  your  trumpet-call. 
Oh,  let  me  hear  at  last,  the  Flag  still  waves; 
Let  it  not  cover  as  a  funeral  pall 

A  land  of  cowards  and  of  trembling  slaves. 

A  million  hearts  are  beating  proud  and  soft 

To  the  low  thunder  of  the  muffled  drum; 

I  see  the  scales  of  Justice  held  aloft 

In  God's  right  hand,  and  know  the  hour  is  come. 


of  ^otyn  £atoarp  189 


The  Union  weighed  and  wanting  —  what,  a  tear 
Cause  it  to  mount!  while  Afric's  sighs  and  groans 
Shake  the  firm  Capitol  with  guilty  fear 
To  topple  from  its  base  foundation  stones! 

The  serpent  and  the  eagle  fight  again; 
The  world  astonished  looks  upon  the  pair 
Writhing  and  striking  in  blind  rage  and  pain; 
Now  Slavery  falls!  and  circling  o'er  his  lair, 
Our  thunder-bearing  bird  re-plumes  for  flight; 
In  tempest  ran  the  Country's  awful  form 
Spurs  on  the  heroes  of  the  North  to  fight, 
And  calls  them  forth  like  snow-flakes  in  a  storm. 

If  here  no  comet  came  to  bud 

"With  trains  of  fire  and  dews  of  blood," 

No  armies  fought  then  overhead, 

No  heavens  grew  pale,  nor  glowed  with  red 

Disasters  in  the  sun  and  moon, 

Something  there  was,  reported  soon 

In  every  journal  of  the  land; 

If  true  or  not,  then  let  it  stand 

Germane  to  the  greatest  crime, 

Sign  and  wonder  of  the  time: 


A   SIGN 

Heavy  in  the  woeful  hour, 

An  arm  of  supernatural  power 

In  heavens  distinctly  seen! 

Clothed  on  with  thunders,  and  the  sheen 

Of  lightnings  glistening  as  that  white 

Clothed  arm  in  mystic,  once,  samite 


190  Memorial  Volume 

Over  the  lake  which  did  not  stir, 

Brandishing  Excalibur! 

Not  so  this,  except  for  height 

Of  grandeur  greater  by  the  might 

Of  Justice  armed  and  raised  to  smite 

With  its  "two-handed  engine,"  keen 

Splendor  in  the  night  serene. 

Portentous  in  the  night  of  crime, 

Men  saw,  sublime 

The  gesture  —  what  the  heavens  mean 

(Blood-red  in  all  its  length, 

And  menacing  for  strength), 

A  naked  sword  hung  forth 

Its  handle  to  the  north! 


GOOD  NEWS 

It  comes  from  the  South,  and  the  news  is  good, 

The  best  was  ever  sung  or  said: 
God's  angel  Cold  did  what  it  could — 

The  Yellow  Fever,  Sir,  is  dead! 


TREASON 

Now  the  People  lay  their  hands 
On  black  Treason's  gown  and  bands, 
Sign  its  forehead  with  the  sign, 
Round  it  draw  the  fatal  line, 
And  pronounce  the  awful  curse 
Of  the  living  universe: 
Anathema!  anathema! 


of    tofjn  £aimr  191 


MEMORIAL  DAY 

It  comes  not  with  the  passion  of  spent,  useless  tears, 
Nor  not  with  the  reflux  of  our  griefs  and  fears; 

Nor  with  dumb  sorrow  as  for  wasted  lives, 
But  with  the  solemn  purpose  of  the  years. 

For  the  broad  charter  of  our  freedom  yet, 
To  which  the  seal  of  their  true  lives  was  set, 

Pledging  the  hopes  of  freedom  to  mankind; 
Remembering  what  it  cost,  can  we  forget? 


TO  JAMES  ABRAM  GARFIELD 

When  to  the  summit  thou  shalt  come  elect 
By  strenuous  toil,  and  by  the  golden  dower 
Of  hearts  and  hopes  to  blossom  in  an  hour 

Of  happy  fortune,  standing  there  erect 

Before  the  altar  sworn  with  due  respect 
To  consecrate  thy  life's  best  fruit  and  flower, 
Remember  that  the  top  of  human  power 

In  prospect  green,  is  bald  in  retrospect. 

And  therefore  think  that  when  these  servile  hearts 
That  kiss  thee  now,  shall  melt  and  fall  away, 
Unless  thou  bear  a  touchstone  in  thy  mind, 

Thou  shalt  become  the  prey  of  subtle  arts, 

And  find  not  friends  but  flatterers  who  betray 
Thy  soul  to  bondage  like  a  Samson  blind. 


192 


FEBRUARY   SKIES 

Stepping  outside  my  domicile  at  eve, 
I  saw  as  one  in  stupor  and  surprise 
The  cold  disdain  of  February  skies 

Freezing  our  earth  to  the  last  bosom-heave. 

No  cloud  nor  color,  mist  nor  stain  did  grieve 
The  stainless  ether's  beauty  by  devise 
Of  pure  severity  of  light  that  lies 

In  seeing  truth  where  others  but  believe. 

The  city  drest  in  winter  sunshine  lay 
Open  to  sight  in  every  thoroughfare. 

Dome,  temple,  spire,  tall-masted  ship  and  bay 
Stood  all  transfigured  in  the  shining  air: 

O  that  my  style  possessed  this  virtue  rare 

To  show  the  vision  of  the  world  to-day. 

PEEPING   FROGS 

Now  come  the  minstrels  of  the  swamp  and  pool, 
The  peeping  frogs  which  make  the  shallows  ring 
At  sundown  like  some  myriad-squeaking  thing! 

Thus  with  our  senses  Nature  plays  the  fool 

And  has  these  blubberings  of  her  infant  school 
(Her  lower  forms  which  make  a  noise  to  sing), 
Kept  like  the  rune-stocks  of  the  ancient  spring 

In  notched  green  flags  among  the  waters  cool. 

I  know  the  blood-root  and  the  crocus  nigh, 
New  leaves  and  grass  and  winter  going  off; 

Soon  as  the  earth  sends  up  that  herald  cry 

It  makes  me  dream  of  Summer  bye-and-bye, 
Of  shade,  and  cattle  at  the  drinking  trough, 

And  sunburnt  reapers  in  a  field  of  rye. 


of     olm  £afcar  193 


GREENLAND 

We  went  from  the  land  of  palm  and  pine 

To  the  land  of  hail  and  snow; 

And  we  saw  like  sheeted  ghost  arise 

From  the  vast  ice-plains  below  - 

What  eidolans  that  then  appeared 

The  spirits  of  mist  and  snow! 

Afar  in  the  dim  and  desolate  land 

With  never  a  grain  of  earth  or  sand 

Where  a  shrub  or  tree  could  grow  - 

They  stood  alone  in  the  spectral  earth 

Stark  images  of  woe! 

And  we  saw  the  terminal  dark  morain 

And  the  frozen  mountains  clove  in  twain 

Where  the  roaring  rivers  go. 

And  we  heard  the  awful  splitting  sound 

Of  ice  in  the  gorge  below 

By  cliffs  that  foothold  scarce  afford 

When  the  frozen  torrents  come  to  be 

Falling  and  flowing  o'er  fell  and  fiord 

In  all  their  grace  and  wondrous  glory 

From  jutting  crag  and  promontory. 

We  saw  the  jingling  icy  board 

Go  down  to  the  distant  sea. 

The  cold  that  vegetation  kills 

Kills  animal  life;  but  by  a  jag 

Of  rock  we  found  where  the  mute  air  thrills 

In  the  very  heart  of  the  iron  hills, 

The  bones  of  deer  and  antlered  stag. 

By  painful  steps,  with  progress  slow, 

We  drag  ourselves  o'er  the  frozen  ground, 

But  yet  no  sign  of  life  was  found, 


194  Jflemorial  Bolumc 

Unless,  in  cavities  of  ice 
Metallic  dust  from  cosmic  space, 
Blown  to  that  spot,  the  single  trace 
Of  life  in  alien  worlds  —  the  price 
Of  knowledge  here  when  all  around 
A  shroud  that  hides  the  form  below  — 
The  earth  puts  on  her  fleecy  robe, 
And  swells  to  the  top  of  the  convex  globe 
In  the  land  of  ice  and  snow. 
There  a  single  cross  alone  we  found, 
And  a  pair  of  ravens  wheeling  came 
In  the  gathering  darkness  as  it  stole 
A  crown  and  omen  mute  with  woe. 
They  were  the  omens  of  the  land  — 
Black  to  the  eyes  which  burned  like  flame 
And  calling  back  to  a  mortal  form 
The  spirit  of  immortal  woe 
Incarnate  once  in  Edgar  Poe. 

AN  OLD  APPLE  TREE 

Standest  thou  here,  my  friend,  so  old  and  gray? 

Why,  I  remember  thee  in  youth,  a  boy 
About  thy  roots  how  oft  I  used  to  play 

With  little  sister,  carry  many  a  toy 
But  best  of  all  the  acorn's  tiny  tray. 

IN  THE  ROTUNDA  OF  THE   CAPITOL 

I  am  afraid,  I  really  am,  of  ghosts; 
Will  they  not  walk  out  of  their  frames,  malign? 
Or  will  they  hold  like  sentries  still  their  posts, 
Until  they  hear  the  joyful  countersign? 


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THE  THOMAS   STATUE 

What  fire,  what  spirit  in  the  creature's  feet, 
And  in  his  frame  where  battle  tremors  ran. 

I  see  quite  plainly  coming  up  the  street 

The  horse's  head,  but  where  now  is  the  man? 


CLARK  MILLS   STATUE  OF  JACKSON 

Look  at  Old  Hickory  and  his  favorite  stud 
With  raised  forefeet  as  pawing  in  the  air. 

A  squall  has  struck  the  horse  —  the  rider's  blood 
Is  up,  and  "by  the  Eternal!" —  hear  him  swear. 


THE   BURIED   CITY 

Out  of  the  Red  Sea  of  the  sunset  spread 
With  wreck  and  ravage  of  the  sunken  day, 

I  see  my  neighbors'  chimneys  rising 
As  of  a  submerged  city  in  the  bay. 

The  mind  sees  truly;  but  the  eye  still  sees 

Not  that  which  is,  but  only  that  which  seems; 

And  well  I  know  that  visions  such  as  these 
Become  a  wanderer  in  the  land  of  dreams. 

My  couch  is  laid  where  I  no  longer  dream 
In  the  wide  porches  of  the  House  of  Sleep; 

I  muse  in  thought  upon  the  mighty  stream 
Of  Memory  backward  where  the  ages  keep 


196  emorial  Bolumc 


Stern  watch  and  ward  above  long-buried  things, 
Like  darkness  brooding  with  extended  wings; 

And  thus  what  once  was  comes  again  to  be 
Known  to  the  soul  which  re-discovers  things, 

And  calls  up  images  of  what  we  see. 

There  was  a  sunken  city,  travelers  say, 

Under  a  sea  o'er  which  their  ships  have  sailed; 

An  inland  sea  and  city  of  Cathay, 

That  land  which  never  yet  of  wonders  failed. 

It  was  no  city  of  enchantment  built 
By  toiling  slaves  and  genii  of  the  mine, 

But  a  true  city,  many-domed  and  gilt, 

Seen  thro'  the  shimmer  of  the  seas  to  shine. 

There  were  broad  streets  and  ornamented  squares, 
And  massive  piles  of  buildings  grand  and  high; 

But  all  deserted  were  the  thoroughfares, 
Silent  the  temples  open  to  the  sky. 

Deep  in  the  waters  crystal-clear  and  cold 
Stretched  like  a  curtain  of  translucent  air 

Abides  the  city,  and  the  belfries  hold 

The  bells  (they  say)  which  knell  even  yet  to  prayer. 

If  this  be  true,  it  is  a  truth  diffract 

Cross-lights  of  error,  and  of  judgment  ill: 

As  in  the  twilight,  an  old  stump  in  fact 
Stands  for  an  imp  or  a  hobgoblin  still. 

We  dream  but  what  we  see,  and  I  saw  this 
Across  the  murky  pool  of  daylight  dead, 

My  neighbors'  chimneys,  like  the  towers  of  Dis 
Out  of  the  sea  of  sunset  rising  red. 


of       )n  J>atoar  197 


THE   LAST  JUDGMENT 

What  voice  is  that  like  the  last  thunder-boom 

Of  tempest  on  the  hills,  in  one  crash  ending? 

Lo,  from  the  clouds  the  Son  of  Man  descending, 
Clothed  with  all  might  and  majesty,  in  gloom 
From  which  the  face  of  Glory  flowers  in  bloom: 

On  the  vast  slopes  of  hills  in  circuit  bending, 

All  tribes  and  nations  of  the  dead  are  wending, 
The  damned  in  silence  to  receive  their  doom. 
The  awful  Critic  of  mankind  will  now 

Pronounce  one  word  like  the  great  seal  of  fate 
While  heaven  and  earth  shall  flee  before  his  brow 

Of  thunder  charged  with  bad  men's  doom  and  date, 

By  his  recorded  and  eternal  vow, 
The  good  to  glory  are  caught  up  in  state. 


"ATQUE  IN  PERPETUUM  FRATER  AVE 
ATQUE  VALE" 

This  was  the  way  of  Roman  brother's  love: 

High,  grave,  and  stern,  though  veiled  above  the  bier, 

Hushing  the  sobs  that  his  deep  bosom  heave, 

Hiding  the  hand  that  wiped  the  furtive  tear. 

And  so,  forever  to  forever,  well  - 

Brother  beloved!  goodbye,  hail  and  farewell! 

"O,  withered  is  the  garland  of  the  war! 

The  soldier's  pale  is  fallen;  young  boys  and  girls 

Are  level  now  with  men;  the  odds  is  gone 

And  nothing  now  is  left  remarkable 

Beneath  the  visiting  moon. 


198  Jftemorial  Botome 

When  she  the  flag  of  fear  unfurled 

At  Actium,  she  changed  the  world. 

Had  Antony  been  chaste  and  true 

To  his  Octavia,  the  world  knew 

That  young  Augustus  was  no  match 

For  Rome's  great  soldier:  one  must  catch 

The  golden  moment  of  success; 

Augustus  did,  and  then  grew  less 

The  shadow  of  Antony;  the  one  endured, 

The  other's  genius  was  obscured, 

Grew  pale  and  dwindled  like  a  star 

In  contact  with  a  greater  far  — 

But  the  most  shameful,  damning  note 

Of  infamy  was  when  he  crept 

His  honor  and  his  glory  slept  — 

Under  a  woman's  petticoat. 

CARTHAGO  EST  DELENDA 

The  banished  Marius  sitting  on  the  tomb 
Of  buried  empire,  felt  within  him  creep 
Remorse  of  Roman  savageness  a-steep 
In  mournful  memory  of  the  settled  doom 
Of  greatness  swept  by  war's  last  thunder-boom 
To  annihilation  and  eternal  sleep. 

Behold  the  Lady  Tanith  from  the  deep 
Sea  rising  sad  as  Sorrow's  face  in  gloom. 
Unveiled  she  looks  on  desolation  hoar 
From  Jebel  Gamart  to  the  bordering  foam 
O'er  which  with  insult,  the  proud  conqueror  bore 

Her  stolen  peplum  to  the  rival  Rome. 
So  the  Great  Goddess  waits  till  they  restore 

Her  Tyrian  purple  veil  and  rites  at  home. 


of     £atoar       199 


IN  ANSWER  TO  CLEOPATRA'S  PROTEST; 

OR, 

HAS  SHE  BEEN  MISREPRESENTED? 

But  who  shall  contravene,  one  idle  deem, 

The  poet's  vision  and  the  sculptor's  dream? 

If  one  could  see  within  that  mask  of  stone 

The  soul  that  lived  to  love  and  friendship  known, 

The  fire  that  rolled  at  bottom  of  her  eye 

Full-charged  with  thunder  like  a  sultry  sky, 

The  cloud  that  hung  still  round  her  drooping  brows 

Heavy  with  passion  of  her  broken  vows, 

The  manners  mutable  and  the  mind  of  fear 

Not  for  herself  but  those  who  held  her  dear! 

Her  craft  by  nature  and  the  boundless  guile 

That  made  her  still  the  "Serpent  of  Old  Nile"; 

Her  woman's  whim  in  every  vortex  whirled, 

Which  made  or  marred  the  fortunes  of  a  world, 

Her  feline  nature  armed  to  scratch  and  bite 

E'en  more  than  tiger,  tiger  burning  bright, 

Her  neck  ophidian  and  her  eyes  which  burned 

With  that  strange  glitter  of  a  serpent's  turned 

In  fond  and  fatal  fascination  where 

She  marked  her  prey,  and  bade  it  flutter  there; 

I  think,  my  friend,  in  spite  of  your  fine  verse, 

You'd  hardly  have  taken  her  "for  better  or  worse!" 

A  most  uncomfortable  woman  o'  my  soul, 

Better  the  shot,  the  dagger,  or  the  bowl! 

And  well  Marc  Antony  might  thank  his  stars, 

He  scaped  by  dying  so,  from  fiercer  jars, 

From  greater  tempests,  and  worse  civil  wars. 


200  Memorial  Volume 


TO  A   FAULT-FINDING   CRITIC 

What  is  it  makes  the  kettle  black, 
Or  makes  the  china  cup  so  blue? 
If  jaundiced  eye  should  lustre  lack, 
'Tis  bile  that  gives  the  bilious  hue. 
The  sky  to  some  is  but  blue-black, 
And  who  knows  how  to  it  look  you? 


LETTER  AND   SPIRIT 

'The  letter  kills,  the  spirit  giveth  life." 
Whoever  shall  to  excellence  aspire 

Must  shun  his  fate,  poor  man!  who  is,  in  spite 

Of  nature  and  his  stars,  condemned  to  write. 
Fat,  foolish  wits  habitually  admire 
The  fool  of  quality  faultless  in  attire. 

The  negative  virtues  are  deemed  only  right 

By  critics  who  commend  the  tame  and  trite, 
But  hate  originality  and  fire. 
Eternal  grinders  of  the  commonplace, 

Coldly  correct,  and  hopelessly  made  dull; 
Wanting  in  spirit,  beauty,  wit  and  grace, 

Losing  the  kernel,  give  you  but  the  hull: 
And  best  described  in  Tennyson's  phrase, 

"Icily  regular,  splendidly  null." 


A   FABLE   WITH  AN   APPLICATION 

Unto  a  spirit  in  the  realm  of  gloom 

There  came  an  angel  whom  that  soul  malign 
Accosted,  saying,  What  a  flower  is  thine! 


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For  in  his  hand  the  Angel  bore  a  bloom 
Exceeding  beautiful,  of  so  rare  perfume 
That  that  ill  spirit,  drunken  as  by  wine, 
Craved  of  his  guest  the  flower  bestowed  in  sign 
Of  favor  to  him.     And  behold  in  room 
Of  flower,  a  scorpion! 

Who  gives  away 

In  church  or  home,  a  spotless  maiden  flower 
To  a  vile  man  unworthy  of  such  dower, 
Repeats  the  angel's  action  every  day. 
And  every  scandal  of  such  marriage  born 

Is  but  the  flower-hatched  cockatrice  of  morn. 


SIR  JOHN  HAWKINS 

Courage  and  fortune  the  great  navigator 
Serving  as  guides,  led  forth,  surprising  first 
The  secret  of  new  lands  discovered  erst. 

Sable,  on  waves  of  sea,  the  argent  bore 

Upon  his  crest  of  arms  a  demi-moor 

As  bond  and  captive;  so  indeed  he  nurst 
By  traffic  that  ill  flame  which  lately  burst 

In  conflagration  of  vast  civil  war. 

Foreign  and  far  to  seek  of  great  events 

The  trivial  cause,  which  some  call  Providence. 

Hardy  and  bold  and  pious  and  humane 
Was  he  reputed  England's  chief  sailor, 

He  bound  a  race  in  slavery's  lasting  chain, 
Till  Abram  Lincoln  came,  emancipator. 


202  Memorial  Volume 


A  FABLE  AND  A  MORAL 

A  London  Jew  kept  in  the  Strand, 
Who  dealt  in  clothes  at  second-hand. 
He  stood  the  passers-by  to  note; 
His  business  was  to  sell  a  coat. 

Two  countrymen  both  raw  and  thin, 
Father  and  son,  he  roped  them  in; 
And  spite  of  frequent  loud  denials, 
He  tried  on  coats,  but  all  his  trials 

Were  useless,  vain; —  not  one  would  suit. 
They  turned  to  go,  when  like  a  brute, 
The  Jew  caught  hold  the  younger  one, 
And  then  a  coat, —  he  forced  it  on. 

4 The  coat  I  tell  you  does  not  suit!" 
"You  tell  me  so?  that  is  no  goot; 
And  not  to  wear  it  is  a  sin: 
The  coat  ish  goot  —  the  poy's  too  thin!" 


OVID   IN   EXILE 

(TRISTIA  VIII) 

Now  would  I  mount  thy  car,  Triptolemus, 
Who  sent  the  seed-corn  unto  stranger  lands. 
Now  I  would  yoke  the  dragons  which  Medea 
Had,  when  she  fled  the  brazen  tower  of  Corinth. 
Now  I  would  take  thy  all-ambitious  plumes, 
Perseus,  or  Daedolus,  yea,  even  thine! 


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That  I,  far-winging  the  thin  yielding  air, 
Might  suddenly  behold  my  native  land, 
The  aspect  of  my  own  deserted  house, 
The  faces  of  my  old  remembered  friends, 
And  the  dear  lips  of  my  abandoned  spouse. 

But  wherefore,  fool  !  with  childish  wishes  vain 
Wear  out  the  day  which  now,  nor  never,  will 
Convey  thee  homeward;  were  it  achievable, 
Adore  the  numen  of  Augustus,  whom 
Thou  hast  offended;  and  placate  the  god. 
He  can  provide  thee  with  swift  chariots, 
And  even  wings;  granted  return,  thou  shalt 
Straightway  be  plumed. 

Should  I  ask  this 

Boon  of  all  boons,  the  greatest  I  can  ask, 
Might  it  not  seem  presumptuous?  I  fear. 
Perchance,  hereafter,  when  his  anger  shall 
Have  time  to  cool,  this,  too,  my  chief  request 
May  come  before  him;  in  the  meantime,  less 
Be  worth  my  while  —  ask,  as  an  ample  boon, 
Leave  to  go  anywhere  —  away  from  here. 

Nor  earth,  nor  air,  nor  water,  nor  the  sky 

Agree  with  me;  a  listless  languor  holds 

My  body  always,  whether  or  no  the  mind 

With  a  black  melancholy  invade  the  joints, 

Or  in  the  region  lies  the  cause  of  ill. 

Since  I  touched  Pontus,  I  have  never  known 

Refreshing  sleep.     Now  weighs  me  down  the  curse, 

Insomnia;  hardly  my  wasted  flesh 

Covers  my  bones;  my  food  I  relish  not: 

And  that  same  color  of  the  dead  leaf  which 


204  Memorial  Volume 

Pervades  the  world  in  autumn  when  the  chill 
Blast  of  the  winter  strikes  the  wood,  is  mine. 
My  failing  strength  is  not  recruited  here, 
And  sorrow's  cause  is  never  absent  long. 


THE    BATTLE    OF   THE    STANDARDS 

To  arms,  Democrats! 

Come  all  ye  true  blue 
In  the  fold  of  the  faithful, 

So  staunch  and  so  true. 
No  wavering  now, 

The  issues  are  drawn; 
The  stake  is  tremendous, 

The  battle  is  on. 
Two  flags  to  the  vision 

Of  hosts  are  unrolled  - 
The  standard  of  silver, 

The  standard  of  gold. 

The  populist  leader, 

A  stripling  at  best, 
Like  young  Lochinvar 

Comes  out  of  the  west. 
By  anarchy's  torch 

Outstreaming  and  red, 
From  the  cave  of  Adullam 

His  cohorts  are  led. 
With  ragshag  and  bobtail 

The  watchword  outrolled 
Is  '  War  to  the  knife!" 

On  the  standard  of  gold. 


of    fofn  £afoar  205 


Be  it  so'  we  accept 

Defiance  outhurled 
To  bivouac  and  battle 
As  wide  as  the  world. 
Far-shining  the  glitter 

Of  silverites  led; 
After  Bryan  all  Asia 

And  Famine  do  tread. 
But  lo!  the  Republican 

Arms  which  enfold 
The  ensign  advanced, 

OUR  standard  is  gold. 

Columbia's  statesmen 

Accustomed  to  wield 
Her  wisdom  in  council, 

Her  thunders  in  field; 
Her  judges  whose  learning 

With  purity  vied, 
Her  Bench  and  her  Bar 

With  the  Pulpit  allied, 
Will  answer  the  Boy 

On  the  burning  deck  rolled, 
When  the  standard  of  silver 

Goes  down  before  gold. 

The  party  of  Jefferson 
Its  name  to  you  gives; 

The  spirit  of  Jackson 
In  you  it  still  lives. 

O,  once  the  wide  continent 
Rang  with  their  fame 


206  Jttemorial  Bolume 

And  faction  was  awed 

By  the  sound  of  their  name. 

Their  spirits  abroad 
Your  arms  will  uphold, 

Their  voices  are  ringing, 
Their  standard  was  gold. 

For  God  and  for  country 

Then  strike  as  you  must; 
Shall  National  Honor 

Be  trailed  in  the  dust? 
Who  flaunts  in  your  face 

The  anarchist  rag? 
But  down  with  the  traitor 

And  up  with  the  flag! 
Cheap  manhood  and  money 

Require  to  be  told 
They're  not  the  American 

Standard  of  gold. 

To  the  valley,  Decision, 

Move  on  without  fear; 
March  on,  Democrats! 

Armageddon  is  here. 
With  Bragg  and  with  Buckner, 

With  Watterson,  ah! 
Go  follow  his  dashing 

White  plume  of  Navarre. 
Let  Cleveland,  our  Cromwell, 

From  citadel  bold 
Still  thunder  defiance, 

The  STONEWALL  of  gold. 


of  Sfrtnt  £afratp  207 


By  the  graves  of  your  fathers 

Yet  green  with  renown; 
By  their  spirits  immortal 

Like  stars  looking  down; 
Consider  their  trust, 

And  demagogues  hate, 
But  don't  let  them  scuttle 

The  Old  Ship  of  State. 
The  stars  in  their  courses 

Fight  for  us,  enrolled 
In  the  Flag  of  the  Union, 

Whose  standard  is  gold. 


THEN  AND   NOW 

There  came  a  man  once  out  of  Galilee 
Unto  Jerusalem;  he  came  as  sent 
On  the  destruction  of  the  Temple  bent. 

At  least,  they  said  so;  robbers  they  should  be 

Who  took  this  man  and  nailed  him  to  a  tree. 
His  only  crime  that  his  whole  life  was  spent 
In  doing  good  —  not  for  emolument. 

"I  came  not  to  destroy  but  to  fulfill,"  said  he. 

We  have  our  Temple,  and  perform  our  vow 
Of  service  here  —  for  gain  to  private  ends. 
Reform  the  service?  Well,  who  takes  the  stent? 

If  Christ  should  come  and  overturn  it  now? 
We  send  to  Coventry  who  seeks  to  cleanse 
The  Augean  stables  of  the  government. 


208  emorial  Bolume 


THE  NEW  YORK  GIRL 

Girl  of  the  Period!  Belle  of  Fifth  Avenue! 
Most  gorgeous  creature  and  so  wondrous  wise 
In  matter-o'-money  beating  her  who  plies 
Her  nightly  trade  without  excuse  —  -  'tis  true 
In  some  respects  she  much  resembles  you  - 
Throwing  on  golden  youth  great,  greedy  eyes, 
Snapping  at  every  gilded  bait  that  flies, 
In  mad  flirtation  leading  the  hallooing, 
Pursued  by  men,  and  always  men  pursuing. 


A  BALLADE  OF  WAITING 

(HISPANIOLA  LOQUITOR) 

Cuba  is  waiting,  wearily  waiting, 
Land  is  fallow  and  there  is  no  fun 
In  rotting  quays  and  box  cars  freighting 
Of  sugar  and  'bacco,  nary  a  ton. 
Plantations  ruined,  owners  undone, 
You  have  in  true  heart  of  a  people  fond 
Sown  doubt  and  distrust,  made  every  one 
See  honor  at  stake,  starvation  beyond. 

In  cafe  and  corners  men  are  debating 
Strange  things  oversea,  ill  news  to  run! 
They  pound  on  benches  and  tables,  stating, 
"We  ask  for  bread,  and  they  give  us  a  stone. 
They  treat  us  worse  even  than  Goth  and  Hun. 
WeVe  plenty  of  goods,  but  all  in  bond.'' 
What  is  the  news  from  Washington? 
Honor  at  stake,  starvation  beyond. 


of     ofn  £afcar  209 


Let  the  People  rise  in  their  majesty,  mating 
Like  lions  that  rouse  with  a  roar  to  stun 
Ere  they  dash  to  pieces  a  party  prating 
Of  twenty  per  cent!  is  that  all  to  be  won 
By  wearily  waiting  under  the  sun? 
Shame  on  your  Cortes!  the  lesson  conned: 
Instead  of  justice  tossing  a  bun  - 
Your  honor  at  stake,  our  famine  beyond. 


ON  SCIENTIFIC  WORKERS  AND  SPECIALISTS 

The  trowel's  ring  of  masons'  work  doth  hide 

Science,  in  our  day,  by  strong  minds  controlled; — 
The  organizing  genius  new  and  bold, 
Which  plans  the  growing  edifice  in  pride 
On  knowledge,  on  foundations  deep  and  wide. 
And  well,  if  men  could  happily  behold 
"The  singing  masons  building  roofs  of  gold," 
And  not  mere  mortar-mixers  of  applied 
Science  inchoate;  yet  these  hod-men  are 
Bringers  of  all  such  necessary  facts, 
And  indispensable  to  the  building  raised, 
As  is  the  architect,  who,  from  afar 

Surveys  the  rising  pile,  and  has  to  tax 
Creation  in  his  thought, —  or  it  outblazed! 


TO  A  MALIGNANT  CRITIC 

(APROPOS  OF  A  LATE  ENGLISH  NOTICE  OF  AN  AMERICAN  POET) 

Fair  play's  a  jewel,  taking  not  one's  part. 
You  say  "It  is  not  poetry,"-  -  what  then? 
The  "sweltered  venom"  of  a  critic  pen 


210  emorial  Bofame 


Kills  with  a  scratch,  or  wounds  a  noble  heart. 

Your  poisoned  arrow,  shot  with  savage  art, 
Betrayed  the  skulker  in  his  dirty  den  — 

Impunity  from  scorn's  most  killing  dart. 

That  ancient  feud,  hereditary  war, 
Waged  by  all  critics  upon  poets  once 
Tinged,  it  may  be,  with  poet  hopes  forlorn, 

Moved  you,  I  think,  by  misdirection,  for 
Retorted  here  on  the  malignant  dunce, 
I  find  this  wisp  of  hay  on  that  Bull's  horn. 


ON  THE  WORLD'S  PROGRESS 

(A  METRICAL  DISSERTATION) 

Is  the  world's  progress  to  your  mind 
A  thing  established?     Is  mankind 
Growing  better?    World  at  worst, 
Shall  it  be  forever  curst 
With  war  and  slavery?     Does  it  sense 
The  evil  of  intemperance? 
Schopenhauer,  to  name  it  still 
Representative  Idea  and  Will, 
Labors  at  the  world  in  vain, 
To  find  a  purpose  in  it  plain. 
He  does  not  even  find  as  much 
Nobility  of  mind  and  soul 
As  characterizes  many  such 
On  the  earth  as  have  attained  the  goal 
The  empire-builder,  Cecil  Rhodes, 
Carried  away  from  Oxford  goads 
That  were  to  him  the  Temple's  nail 
Of  wisdom  —  words  that  never  fail. 


of    tofm  £atoar  211 


The  words  were  Aristotle's,  hence 

A  man's,  he  said,  of  great  sentence, 

The  purport  being,  and  the  cause 

That  I  remember  what  it  was, 

c  'The  only  thing  that  ever  can 

Dignify  the  life  of  man, 

Or  give  splendor  to  a  name, 

Is  to  have  a  noble  aim." 

Applying  this,  now,  to  the  task 

Of  governing  the  world,  we  ask 

Is  there  in  this  mighty  frame 

Of  things  nobility  of  aim? 

And  such  greatness  of  design 

As  adhered  to,  every  line 

And  point  about  it  is  the  sign  — 

Manual  of  the  Maker's  thought 

Impressed  upon  it,  as  it  ought 

To  be,  evincing  the  divine 

Perfection  which  may  justly  claim 

In  everything  there  is,  in  fine, 

The  shaping  argument  from  design 

Which,  always  one  thing  and  the  same, 

Has  reached  its  being's  end  and  aim 

In  that  thing  which  the  artist  sought 

As  something  worthy  to  be  wrought, 

A  masterpiece  in  deed  and  thought! 

Does  the  world  to  you  stand  still, 

Or  does  it  simply  roll  and  range, 

An  everlasting  orb  of  change? 

If  the  world  is  Living  Will, 

There  is  flux  and  reflux  still. 

But  for  progress  who  shall  say 

The  world  is  farther  on  to-day 


212  temorial  Bolume 


Than  last  year,  or  yesterday? 

Do  we  know  the  nature  of  things 

Lucretius  wrote  on,  or  more  nigh, 

Napoleon  was  conquered  by? 

Out  in  space  the  planet  swings, 

Balancing  itself  on  wings 

Of  gravitation  held  across, 

Like  Poe's  (and  Coleridge's)  albatross 

That  seemed  upon  the  air  to  sleep, 

But  its  perpetual  motions  keep 

Their  double  watch  both  night  and  day, 

And  while  rolling  on  its  way, 

Like  a  pendulum  it  swings  away 

'Twixt  eternity  and  time. 

An  instance  of  the  false  sublime 

If  this  be  called,  why  then  I'll  say 

Betwixt  the  Unseen  and  the  Seen; 

So  there  the  pendulum  swings  between 

Two  points,  but  never  goes  beyond: 

'Tis  ruled  by  an  Enchanter's  wand 

Whose  name,  you  may  suppose,  is  Law. 

"Punctual  as  sun  and  star," 

They  seem  to  know  just  where  they  are, 

Vespers  or  matins,  at  the  chime, 

And  they  get  there  every  time! 

Judicious  Hooker  said  of  Law, 

And  its  all  so  potent  rod 

Silently  constraining  choice, 

From  her  seat  the  bosom  of  God, 

Millions  of  orbs  in  vortex  whirled, 

Silently  hark'ning  heed  the  Voice 

Which  is  the  Harmony  of  the  World. 


ffioemg  of  ffirfm  £afrarp 213 

Nevermore  shall  I  forget 

The  sublimest  moment  yet 

Of  seeing  and  of  being  drawn 

To  the  Voice,  and  oh!  the  dawn 

Of  the  immortal  Word-and-thought 

Which,  silent  as  itself  then  wrought 

A  miracle  —  another  dawn  it  brought 

Of  the  grandest  yet,  Idea 

Floating  in  an  atmosphere 

Of  world-wonder  to  be  caught  — 

Do  you  grasp  it  fully  here? 

The  soul-sublime  and  awe-struck  thought: 

In  this  apparent  all  disorder 

Lo,  there  reigns  Eternal  Order. 

Reconcile  it  as  you  can, 

The  pessimist,  who  is  mere  man, 

Sees  the  disorder,  but  his  soul 

Never  arrives  at  the  Great  Plan, 

The  vast  conception  of  the  whole. 

And  there  are  many,  most  men  see 

Only  disorder  —  things  like  mad 

Folk  in  Bedlam  under  ban  — 

And  the  human  soul,  the  sad 

Pilgrim  of  Immortality, 

Affecting  here  great  wanderlust, 

In  the  blue  distance  travels  far, 

Think  you,  does  the  world  stand  still? 

Or  does  it  simply  roll  and  range 

Forever,  though  in  devious  ways, 

But  in  right  Tennysonian  phrase, 

Does  the  "great  globe  spin  forever 

Down  the  ringing  grooves  of  change?" 


214  Hemoriai  Volume 


Longfellow's  clock  upon  the  stairs, 

Ticking  on  "forever  .  .  .  never"  .  .  . 

Is  the  burden  which  it  bears, 

And  the  secret  which  it  shares 

With  all  greatly  burdened  souls, 

As  it  rolls,  as  it  rolls. 

"Change,"  said  Randolph,  in  the  storm 

Of  debate,  "is  not  reform." 

And  I  think,  if  you  insist, 

The  fact  of  progress  wont  be  missed 

By  the  investigator,  hike 

The  historian  as  he  list. 

I  won't  say  it  don't  exist, 

Whether  you  like  it  or  dislike, 

But  only  that  it  won't  be  missed, 

And  therefore  lost,  the  same  alike 

To  optimist  and  pessimist. 

But  I  think  one  should  desist 

In  any  case,  and  not  insist 

Upon  extreme  opinions,  you 

Must  hold  your  own,  but  to  be  true 

To  me  and  mine  own  point  of  view, 

I  equally  am,  entitled  to. 

None,  of  course,  can  reconcile 

The  conflicting  views  erewhile 

Of  pessimist  and  optimist. 

But  could  one  only  strike  between, 

And  thereby  hit  the  Golden  Mean, 

He  would  have  no  antagonism, 

Since  all  men  have  consideration 

For  the  pearl  of  Moderation. 

Not  every  one  can  hold  in  poise 

Calm  judgment,  far  aloof  from  noise 


of    tott  £afcar  215 


And  dust  of  risen  controversy. 
But  many  men  of  a  refined 
And  shrewd  intelligence  have  a  kind 
Of  worldly  wisdom,  not  the  true, 
But  insight,  knowledge  to  obtain 
State  secrets,  and  reports  which  gain 
Them  credit  with  the  world  of  yore, 
The  world  behind,  if  not  before. 
And  this  may  be  what  Milton  meant 
When  he  assigned  that  instrument 
Of  knowledge  to  a  class  of  men, 
Who  much  employ  it  now  and  then, 
'  'Till  Old  Experience  do  attain 
To  something  of  prophetic  strain." 
But  since  I  have  not  here  the  goads 
Of  Aristotle,  nor  the  gall 
Of  Schopenhauer  to  impel 
Me  on  the  high  and  mighty  road, 
The  a-priori  entresol 
To  Wisdom's  house  within  the  brain, 
With  its  rich  fraught  of  Ideas  on 
The  porches  of  King  Solomon. 
The  pillared  arches,  polished  floors, 
And  the  magnificent  corridors 
Of  mighty  vistas  far  away 
To  the  Delectable  Mountains,  aye 
Teeming  with  Visions,  and  all  vain 
Philosophies  of  earth  en  train, 
But  all  with  one  accord  in  toils 
Of  sin  or  Satan  which  embroils 
In  thickening  hordes  the  human  fry, 
As  fast  the  engulphing  billow  rolls 
Its  freight  of  all  unhappy  souls 


216  ftemorial  Volume 


To  Scylla  and  Charybdis  nigh. 

And  not  alone  the  bad  take  wing 

As  weak  and  wicked  perishing, 

But  there  the  good,  the  brave,  the  fair 

Drawn  backward  by  down-streaming  hair, 

Are  caught  in  the  rush  and  roaring  still 

Of  earth's  vast  vortices  of  ill. 

Supposing  angels  to  have  wings, 

As  heretofore  the  poet  sings, 

And  one  from  heaven  to  earth  revealed, 

Came  flying  o'er  a  battle  field, 

Would  he  not  think,  if  seeing  well, 

He  had  mistaken  earth  for  hell? 

And  what  does  Homer's  Iliad  teach? 

Not  that  religion  good  men  preach, 

Not  love,  but  hatred  giving  birth 

To  war  enacting  hell  on  earth. 

Monotony  of  slaughter  tired 

Even  Bryant,  who  the  verse  admired; 

And  gentle  Cowper  could  not  well 

Translate  the  Iliad  —  war  is  hell. 

As  Goethe  saw,  and  said  of  it, 

The  history  of  the  world  so  lit 

By  war  that  blackens  every  page 

With  lust  and  cruelty  and  rage, 

Cannot  be  written,  and  be  true 

From  any  moral  point  of  view. 

What  Iliads  vast,  of  human  woes 

The  annals  of  our  race  disclose! 

And  "civilized  nations"  are  the  worst, 

With  rum  and  Romanism  curst, 

And  all  the  ills  that  in  the  train 

Of  trade  still  follow  greed  of  gain. 


of  *$tfyn  Jbatoarp  217 


The  Bible  and  the  missionary 

Are  followed  by  the  "big  navee," 

And  what  the  "heathen  Chinee"  gets 

Is  opium,  cannon,  bayonets. 

For  us  the  red  man  cursing  brands 

Bad  faith,  bad  liquor,  and  bad  lands. 

Hemmed  in  a  ringfence  round  our  pets 

Of  the  Indian  bureau,  charged  with  debts, 

Our  "century  of  dishonor"  stands. 

As  for  the  black  man's  broken  chain, 

What  have  we  offered  him  again? 

We  offered  once  (but  this  was  for 

Indebtedness  before  the  war), 

For  centuries  of  toil  unpaid, 

The  auction-block  and  red  war  made. 

But  then,  as  Abraham  Lincoln  said, 

In  compensation  for  the  red 

Drops  which  the  lash  of  labor  drains 

From  negro  men  and  women's  veins 

Ay,  every  drop  they  put  in  pawn 

Was  balanced  by  another  drawn 

From  their  white  brothers  by  the  sword. 

"I  tremble  for  my  country  first, 

When  I  reflect  that  God  is  just." 

So  Jefferson,  in  the  long  ago; 

How  true  his  forecast  was,  we  know 

By  all  the  sluices  and  the  drains 

Of  War's  red  rivers  and  red  rains 

Which  crimsoned  every  battle  mead, 

But  made  for  righteousness,  indeed, 

And  so,  proclaiming  Slavery  dead 

As  Julius  Caesar,  were  the  red 

Books  balanced  and  posted,  sealed  up  for, 


218  Memorial 


And  on  account  of,  civil  war. 

But  as  fair  weather  after  rain 

Rejoices  all  the  world  again, 

So,  in  the  commonweal  of  good 

And  true  American  brotherhood, 

We  altogether  in  accord 

Lift  up  our  voice  and  thank  the  Lord, 

Because  the  children  now  rejoice, 

As  did  the  fathers  when  they  heard 

The  clarion  and  bell-like  voice 

Of  Liberty  proclaim  —  how  grand 

It  sounded  then  throughout  the  land!  — 

The  voice  of  Liberty  that  stirred 

The  Nation's  youth  —  proclaim  the  word 

To  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  land  ! 

The  world  moves  on,  and  so  must  we 

Move  with  it  as  a  ship  at  sea, 

Or  else  be  left  behind  to  moan 

With  moaning  sea  and  wind  alone. 

Cling  to  your  bark,  then,  and  trim  sail 

Prepared  to  encounter  every  gale 

In  this  rough  sea  of  worldly  strife 

On  the  great  ocean  here  of  life. 

'Tis  written,  "We  are  saved  by  Hope," 

Which  does  not  interfere  with  Grace, 

Tho'  skill  and  courage  have  their  place; 

As  when  the  great  abysses  ope 

To  swallow  you,  be  not  afraid 

To  do  like  him  of  old  who  prayed 

To  Neptune,  saying,  '  'tho  I've  built 

A  goodly  ship,  I  may  be  spilt 

Clean  overboard  (indeed,  I  think 

You  are  going  to  spill  me  in  the  drink). 


of     tin  J>abar  219 


Help  !  Father  Neptune,  or  I  sink. 

Full  well  I  know  that  thou  canst  save, 

Or  send  me  to  a  watery  grave, 

Do  as  you  please,  or  as  thou  wilt, 

But  while  I  have  a  single  spark 

Of  courage  left  me,  this  brave  bark, 

Her  nose  now  to  the  wind  a-swell, 

I  do  intend  on  this  side  hell, 

At  least,  to  steer  my  rudder  well!" 

A  story  should  have  pith  and  point, 

But  when  the  times  are  out  of  joint, 

You  never  can  clear  up  the  doubt 

Till  you  have  heard  the  story  out. 

But  where  then  going  to  begin? 

Or  where  to  end  ?     There  is  the  sin 

Of  doubting  or  denying  God 

Doth  chastise  nations  with  the  rod 

Of  iron  war,  when  necessary; 

He  is  the  judge,  not  you  or  me, 

Of  times  and  seasons  that  agree 

With  War  and  Peace  —  so  let  it  be. 

The  problem  here  of  evil  in 

...    Its  growth  and  its  first  origin, 

To  Contemplation's  eye  unfurled, 

Is  the  profoundest  in  the  world; 

And  all  great  souls  that  ever  loved, 

Are  by  it  most  profoundly  moved. 

The  hairs  of  our  head  are  numbered?  yes, 

But  the  turn  of  a  hair,  the  more  or  less 

Of  chance,  or  accident,  or  design 

May  interfere,  and  by  mute  sign 

The  banished  man  must  country  fly, 

And  murder  is  done  in  wink  of  eye. 


220  emorial  Bolume 


How  many  a  good  man,  if  not  great, 

Is  made  for  Misery's  life-long  mate! 

And  as  in  phosphorescent  sea 

Of  a  steamer's  wake  at  midnight,  he 

Who  stands  on  deck  and  smokes  cigar, 

Observes  perchance  a  shooting  star, 

So  many  a  lovely  light  goes  out 

In  this  tremendous  sea  of  doubt  — 

Goes  out,  I  say,  the  maiden  spark 

Dropt  in  the  waste  and  watery  dark. 

That  such  things  happen,  you  and  I 

Know  well  enough,  but  who  knows  why? 

There  is  no  reason  that  I  know 

Why  this  arrives,  why  that  must  go, 

A  life  snuffed  out  if  not  by  choice, 

Or  by  necessity,  a  voice 

Of  lamentation  and  complaint 

May  reach  the  ear  of  heavenly  saint, 

Which  Heaven  a  ministering  angel  sends 

To  the  lost  soul  whom  it  befriends; 

As  when  on  earth  before  a  storm, 

Life  saving  service  men  inform 

Themselves  of  some  nigh  shipwrect  crew, 

And  the  life-boat  in  surf  put  through, 

Goes  to  their  aid,  and  help  is  nigh: 

And  as  they  stand  their  watches  by, 

And  make  provision  for  the  hour 

Of  coming  tempest,  skies  that  lower, 

So  the  Good  Shepherd  evermore 

To  wandering  sheep  along  the  shore, 

When  the  wind  is  high,  and  in  shriller  key 

Loud  moans  the  grief  of  the  sobbing  sea,  — 

He  knows  that  sin  on  the  earth  prevails, 


of    toit  J>atoar  221 


And  that  only  God  can  set  the  sails 

To  steer  the  soul  through  stormy  seas 

To  haven  of  rest  and  final  peace. 

In  spite  of  fortune-telling  quacks, 

That  is  to  say,  if  you  receive 

For  facts  the  fables  men  believe  — 

As  when  the  Swedish  pastor  fell 

To  writing  '  'Letters  (home)  from  hell," 

He  did  not,  probably  suspect 

He  might  be  credited  with  correct 

Knowledge  and  information  of 

The  place  that  writers  seldom  love 

To  mention  here  to  ears  polite, 

Though  as  a  pastor  he  was  right. 

One  telling  phrase,  remembered  well 

In  this  book,  was  "the  joys  of  hell." 

(Now  don't  convert  these  "joys"  to  "jaws," 

For  pains  and  penalties,  because) 

'Tis  evident  the  pastor,  late 

Informed,  described  hell-up-to-date. 

Which  is  just  what  my  poet  friend  did, 

When  Hovey  wrote,  and  he  appended 

Another  canto  to  Don  Juan, 

Good  as  the  old  or  better,  new  one 

Wherein,  of  course,  tho'  he  befriended 

The  Newport  "smart  set,"  he  defended 

None  of  its  wild  and  wicked  doings, 

Its  cabals,  love,  intrigue,  and  wooings, 

Its  meanness,  marriage  and  divorces, 

Which,  though  up  here  a  matter  of  course  is, 

Yet  down  below,  from  all  one  hears, 

Astonished  Satan  and  his  peers. 

But,  for  this  wandering,  'tis  confest 


222  Memorial  Volume 

The  subject  is  too  grave  for  jest, 

So  let  us  in  another  strain 

Returning  home,  with  hope  amain 

Uphold  the  ways  of  Providence, 

And  by  strict  logic  of  events 

Convince  ourselves  love  is  not  vain, 

But  even  as  old  Homer  said 

(Since  government  must  have  a  head), 

"Jove's  everlasting  golden  chain 

Binds  heaven  and  earth  and  hoary  main," 

To  which  the  modern  for  more  weight 

Adding,  with  no  little  skill, 

Necessity,  the  word  —  Jove  still, 

"Who  binding  nature  fast  in  fate, 

Left  free  the  human  will." 

But  there  are  those  who  yet  maintain 

The  contrary,  and,  to  put  it  mild, 

Say  Homer  was  a  prattling  child, 

And  Pope  a  shallow  sciolist. 

For  sun  and  wind  may  chase  the  mist 

To-morrow  off  the  sea's  great  face, 

Not  off  the  destiny  of  the  race. 

Vainly  we  try  to  peer  and  see 

Into  the  heart  of  the  mystery. 

So  far  as  one  may  judge,  iwis 

'Tis  like  that  cloudy,  dim  abyss 

Which  Dante  strained  his  eye  to  be 

At  bottom  of,  but  could  not  see. 

And  as  fair  weather  men  of  note 

Far  inland  hear  old  ocean's  rote, 

And  watch  keeping  a  weather  eye; 

And  tho'  weather  bureaus  lie 

Half  the  time,  the  other  half, 


of    ^n  £atoar  223 


Well,  they  can  afford  to  chaff 

The  almanac-makers  who,  you  know, 

Scatter  rain,  and  hail,  and  snow, 

With  a  probable  "low,"  or  "high," 

Predicting  snowfall  in  July! 

But  supposing  it  come  true 

Once  in  a  while  —  I've  known  it  to  - 

Then,  on  which  side  is  the  laugh? 

Virgil's  bird,  gigantic  Rumor 

Was  prophetic,  and  poor  Pol  — 

Politics  is  only  tol  — 

Erable,  said  once  Wayne  McVeagh, 

In  the  United  States  to-day, 

To  a  man  with  sense  of  humor. 

A  saying  this  of  equal  fame 

With  another  I  could  name, 

Cause  of  heaving  many  bricks 

By  reformers,  five  or  six 

At  the  author  —  oh,  for  shame! 

Ah,  my  brilliant  friend,  it  sticks 

In  their  crop  with  wrath  extreme: 

"The  purification  of  politics 

Is  an  iridescent  dream." 

For  in  spite  of  what  you  say, 

'Tis  so  in  the  States  to-day. 

And  I  see  no  reason  why, 

Poet  and  politician,  I 

May  not,  if  I  choose  to  pay 

My  respects  to  such,  to-day, 

Lift  up  my  voice  and  prophesy: 

In  the  latter  years  on  earth 

Shall  be  scarcity  and  great  dearth. 

Armies  of  the  unemployed, 


224  Memorial  Volume 

Seeking  work  and  finding  none, 

Nothing  doing  under  the  sun, 

Marching  on  from  void  to  void, 

How  fill  up  without  a  bun, 

How  find  work  where  there  is  none? 

At  sun-up,  by  the  blush  of  dawn, 

The  early  riser  having  gone 

To  the  rich  man's  castle  gate, 

Sees  other  servants  on  him  wait — 

Electricity  is  one. 

All  the  avenues  of  success, 

All  the  means  by  which  men  rise, 

All  the  economies  which  bless, 

Every  thunderbolt  that  flies, 

Long  since  grasped  were  seized  and  held 

Not  by  main  force,  but  by  skill 

Of  knowledge,  science,  strength  of  will 

And  purpose  only,  then  to  weld, 

And  to  use  it  sans  remorse. 

On  the  weak  point  brought  to  bear, 

With  cool  judgment  when  and  where 

On  a  rival  and  his  foe 

Falling  suddenly,  of  course, 

And  with  overwhelming  force 

Plant  the  well  delivered  blow, 

And  keep  at  him  hammering  so 

Everlastingly,  when  he  reeled 

Backward  from  the  staggering  blow, 

He  was  driven  from  the  field, 

Or  left  there  a  mangled  corpse, 

Routed,  dragoons,  foot  and  horse 

By  one  determined  not  to  yield 

Unto  folly,  or  to  fame 


JDocms  of  ^ofjn  £afcarp  225 

His  long  purposed  end  and  aim. 

What,  then,  are  we  coming  to  — 

What  will  not  the  Octopus  do? 

In  the  grasping  arrogance 

Of  its  world-wide  crazy  dance, 

What  the  poor  man's  living  chance? 

For  an  answer  as  we  jog, 

Let  me  to  your  interrog, 

Tell  it  by  way  of  apolog. 

An  attorney  advertised 

For  an  office  boy,  surprised 

By  an  urchin  slim  and  taper, 

Who  there  at  the  open  door 

Handed  him  he  stood  before, 

A  crumpled  bit  of  dirty  paper, 

Which  unrolling  then  he  read: 

"All  my  folkses  here  is  dead! 

IVe  no  father,  nor  no  mother, 

Nary  sister,  nor  a  brother, 

I'm  an  orphan"-  -  rising  sob 

Choked  off  here  at  seeing  Bob  — 

"And  you  see  —  I've  got  to  hustle." 

See  the  point?  I  hope  you  do, 

And  see  what  we  are  coming  to, 

As  the  natural  consequence 

Of  this  mad,  infernal  dance 

To  the  poor  man's  living  chance. 

He  was  never  known  to  hustle 

For  himself,  and  in  the  bustle 

Of  the  sons  of  business,  hence 

A  figure  of  no  consequence, 

No  hurt  feeling  here  of  pride, 

He  is  hustled  soon  aside, — 


226  emorial  Bolume 


Thrown  away  as  useless  lumber, 

Deemed  and  held  for  a  back  number, 

Never  until  now,  Got  wot, 

Have  better  men  been  worse  forgot 

In  a  world  that  knows  them  not! 

He  is  not  inclined  to  shirk 

Any  sort  or  kind  of  work, 

And  yet  he  has  no  heritage 

In  the  business  of  this  age. 

Look  now  at  that  life  of  ease 

In  the  multimillionaire; 

Now  that  all  is  over  and  done, 

In  life's  blood-red  setting  sun, 

At  what,  then,  does  he  gasp  and  stare? 

What  is  there  he  feels  and  sees 

In  skeletons  of  men  like  trees 

Naked,  shivering,  cold  and  bare 

In  the  winter's  icy  air? 

As  the  dry  bones  rattle  on, 

Memories  of  the  dead  and  gone 

Reminiscing,  if  he  sees, 

How  armaments  may  be  increased 

Without  endangering  the  peace 

Of  nations,  and  that  war  should  cease. 

The  speaker's  language  was  precise, 

But  always  courteous  and  nice, 

Though  non-committal  on  the  main 

Question,  it  seemed  to  be  in  vain. 

A  nation's  life  was  but  a  span; 

He  had  opinions  as  a  man, 

To  which  his  title  and  his  place 

Counseled  reserve,  when  face  to  face 

With  prudence  looking  to  the  end 


of     ofn  £atoar  227 


Of  progress,  he  would  recommend 
One  thing,  almost  the  first  and  last, 
Study  the  Records  of  the  Past. 
Herodotus  in  praising,  he 
The  Froissart  of  antiquity, 
Believed  the  old  historian  right 
On  many  questions  now  in  sight. 
But  note  the  mastery  with  ease 
Of  wisdom  in  Thucydides, 
Abounding  in  the  maxims  best 
Of  statesmanship  among  the  rest. 
Both  as  a  mentor  and  a  guide, 
He  tells  you  with  a  kind  of  pride 
In  their  achievements,  arts  and  arms 
Of  those  who  bore  victorious  palms 
When  Sparta  fought,  when  Athens  died, 
But  not  what  they  were  fighting  for. 
Nor  does  he  tell  you  though  allied 
To  all  that's  best  in  literature. 

Mayhap  he  thinks,  '  'Now  were  not  these 

The  armies  of  the  unemployed 

Moving  on  to  the  great  void 

Prepared  for  them  —  fate's  spindle  whirled 

From  the  beginning  of  the  world  - 

Creation's  void  ?  —  it  may  be  so, 

Quoth  the  Octopus.     All  I  know 

Is  their  wandering,  early,  late, 

Houseless,  homeless,  desolate, 

Wives  and  children  tagging  after  — 

Ruined  roof-tree,  blackened  rafter 

In  the  tall  rank-waving  grass, 

And  the  moaning  night-winds  pass 


228  JHemorial  Bolume 

Over  the  once  happy  hearth 

Where  of  old  sat  Love  and  Mirth 

Instead  of  moaning,  and  thereafter, 

Peals  as  of  demoniac  laughter 

Issuing,  God  knows  whence  and  why, 

But  the  Octopus  drawing  nigh 

The  poor  man's  cottage  —  tell  you  what, 

It  stood  upon  that  very  spot 

Where  the  wind  is  moaning,  hark! 

It  was  windowless  and  dark, 

And  its  occupants  are  fled 

To  the  regions  of  the  dead. 

And  the  Octopus?  is  it  true 

By  strict  logic  of  events 

(Same  as  fate,  or  Providence), 

What  is  pertinent  if  true  - 

Is  it  doing  me  and  you? 

With  Hamlet  I  protest  your  ' 'seems" 

Given  to  nightmare  and  pipe  dreams. 

Although  I  may,  for  some  odd  wrinkles, 

Be  numbered  with  the  Rip  Van  Winkles. 

"Give  him,"  folk  said  even  so, 

"A  cold  potato  and  let  him  go." 

And  if  I  am  behind  the  time, 

Still,  both  in  reason  and  in  rhyme, 

There  is  warrant  for  it,  I 

Allow  Monopoly's  mad  dance 

Says  of  the  Poor  man's  Living  Chance, 

Touching  the  world's  cold  charity, 

About  the  same  thing  —  give  him,  lo, 

A  cold  potato  and  let  him  go. 

Time  and  the  dance  meanwhile  go  on 


of  Stoljtt  £atoarp  229 


Above  the  heedless,  rough  and  rude 

Heads  of  the  *  'swinish  multitude" 

(Burke's  phrase),  but  simile  holds  good, 

At  least,  so,  to  the  looker-on 

Noticing  how  the  ball-room  floor 

Undulates  with  more  and  more 

Moving  figures  in  applause 

Of  the  Octopus'  cruel  claws 

Grasping  out  and  holding  on 

To  all  it  gets,  and  more  anon. 

But  hark  I  that  hoarse  and  humming  noise 

From  down  below  that  seems  to  creep 

Ominous  to  all  that  sleep 

As  on  high  masts  do  sailor  boys, 

With  deep  calling  unto  deep. 

Day  of  reckoning,  it  will  come 

With  tempest  coming  —  those  who  dance 

Like  horses  that  curvet  and  prance, 

Teaching  their  riders  to  be  proud 

Of  trampling  on  the  low-down  crowd, 

And  more  like  hogs  before  the  storm 

Leaving  their  sties  yet  snug  and  warm, 

Who  stand  outside  with  gaping  jaws 

To  pick  up  and  to  carry  straws, 

(The  reason  why,  of  course  you  know 

Straws  show  which  way  the  wind  doth  blow). 

Now  looking  up  unto  the  skies, 

Now  to  the  ground  that  seems  to  rise 

And  mingle  with  the  great  commotion 

Of  quaking  earth  and  heaving  ocean, 

And  nowhere  finding  refuge,  he 

Betwixt  the  devil  and  deep  sea, 

As  Coleridge  saw  and  said,  "There  plied, 


230 jftemorial  Volume 

Down  the  river  with  wind  and  tide, 

A  pig  with  vast  celerity; 

And  the  Devil  looked  wise  (seeing)  how  the  while 

It  cut  its  own  throat.     There!  quoth  he  with  a 

smile, 

Goes  England's  commercial  prosperity." 
Change  time  and  place,  with  a  name  or  two, 
And  the  fable,  my  friend,  is  told  of  you. 
It  is  time  to  close.     Ask  pardon  I. 


A  SPARROW'S   FLIGHT 

A  sparrow's  flight  it  seems  to  us  who  bide 

Here  on  the  earth;  as  when,  at  winter-tide 

By  the  hearth-blaze  snug  and  warm  one  sits  at  meat 

While  outside  roars  the  storm  of  wintry  sleet. 

In  at  one  door  a  sparrow  flies  to  hide 

From  blows  and  bufferings,  and  its  ruffled  pride 

To  smooth,  and  bask  a  minute,  ere  it  glide 

In  tempest  forth, —  so  is  man's  life,  as  fleet  — 

A  sparrow's  flight. 

From  darkness  coming  to  the  light  and  heat, 
We  fain  would  tarry  at  our  own  fireside 
But  we  must  forth  soon  to  the  wild  and  wide 
Desert  of  gloom,  nor  heed  how  friends  entreat:* 
They  in  our  coming  and  our  going  greet 

A  sparrow's  flight. 

*  "  Linguenda  domus  et  placens  uxor." — Horace. 


PART  III 

of 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

Some  five  and  forty  years  ago,  there  was  a  great 
awakening  of  the  intellectual  and  moral  forces  of  the 
country,  and  particularly  of  New  England.  A  great 
many  seeds  were  then  slumbering  in  the  fruitful  bosom 
of  humanity,  some  of  which  have  since  ripened  into 
reforms  of  a  beneficent  and  world-wide  character. 
The  anti-slavery  movement  had  then,  or  somewhat 
earlier,  its  beginning;  the  new  anaesthesia  for  pain  had 
been  discovered;  the  blind  were  taught  to  read  by 
means  of  raised  letters;  and  a  better  treatment  of  the 
insane  and  of  criminals  was  then  inaugurated.  It  was 
the  era  of  Prison  Discipline  Societies;  of  charitable  and 
philanthropic  associations;  and  generally,  of  a  wider 
and  more  diffused  intelligence.  It  was  then  that  the 
lecture  platform  first  assumed  a  marked  prominence 
in  New  England;  and  under  the  brilliant  ministrations 
of  men  like  Emerson,  and  Phillips,  Sumner,  Curtis 
and  Lowell,  and  John  B.  Gough,  the  people  were 
aroused  and  taught  as  never  before.  Massachusetts, 
under  the  lead  of  Horace  Mann,  had  instituted  her 
admirable  system  of  common  schools;  and  her  sister 
states  of  New  England  and  New  York  followed  closely 
in  her  footsteps. 

Bear  in  mind  also  that  this  was  equally  the  era  of 
great  inventions;  that  the  first  locomotive  built  in  this 
country  dates  from  the  city  of  Baltimore,  and  from  the 

231 


232  Jttemorial  Volume 

hand  and  brain  of  Peter  Cooper,  in  1830;  that  somewhat 
earlier  than  this,  Eli  Whitney  invented  the  cotton-gin; 
that  Asa  Waters  of  Millbury,  Mass.,  turned  out  the 
first  gun-stock  by  machinery;  that  the  power-loom,  a 
still  older  invention,  had  created  Lowell  and  Man 
chester,  and  was  beginning  to  dam  the  watercourses 
and  to  dot  the  land  of  New  England  all  over  with 
manufactories;  that  after  the  first  railroad  and  the 
first  locomotive,  it  was  only  a  question  of  time,  and,  as 
it  proved,  a  very  short  time,  before  the  screw  propeller 
gave  us  the  splendid  vision  of  the  ocean  steamer  and 
the  floating  palaces  of  the  Hudson  and  the  Mississippi; 
and  along  with  these  came  the  telegraph  and  the  fast 
printing-press.  So  that,  taking  all  things  into  con 
sideration,  there  probably  never  was  a  half-century  of 
equal  or  similar  material  progress  in  the  world's  history. 
Under  its  material  aspects,  I  say,  there  never  was  such 
a  half-century  of  progress;  while,  intellectually  and 
morally  speaking,  it  was  an  era  of  fermentation,  of 
social  agitation  and  aggressive  onward  movement — it 
was  the  era  of  Temperance  and  other  reforms — an  era 
of  discussion  and  of  working  ideas.  It  is  necessary 
to  bear  this  in  mind,  to  carry  this  mental  picture  of 
the  age,  this  form  and  pressure  of  the  time,  if  you  are 
to  get  any  true  idea  of  the  man  who,  as  much  as  any 
American  was,  is  the  representative  of  the  ideas  and 
spirit  which  were  working  and  molding  the  character 
of  New  England,  and,  through  her,  the  civilization  of 
the  North  and  the  Northwest.  One  other  fact  must 
also  be  borne  in  mind — the  fact,  namely,  that  forty  or 
fifty  years  ago,  the  character  of  the  population  of 
New  England  was  homogeneous;  it  was  genuine 
Yankee,  native  and  to  the  manor  born. 


of    tofn  J>afcar  233 


I  happened  to  look,  the  other  day,  into  a  Boston 
directory  of  the  year  1835  (a  little  6x3^-inch  volume), 
and  what  do  you  suppose  I  found?  I  found  that  of 
the  14,000  names  contained  in  the  directory  but  a  very 
few  of  them  indicate  French  or  Irish  descent.  The 
Boston  directory  of  1885  contains  more  than  180,000 
names,  a  majority  of  which  are  not  of  New  England 
birth  or  descent.  Thus  we  seem  to  behold  in  the  Boston 
of  to-day  thirteen  Bostons  of  fifty  years  ago,  seven  of 
which  are  communities  of  foreigners. 

Remembering  this  fact,  the  next  time  you  read  Mr. 
Lowell's  essay,  "On  a  certain  Condescension  in  For 
eigners,"  you  will  pardon  the  keenness  of  the  satire, 
and  be  able  to  understand  a  reason  for  it.  But,  if 
we  except  Athens  and  Florence  —  Athens  in  the  age 
of  Pericles  and  Florence  under  the  Medici  —  there 
never  was  combined  in  so  small  a  compass  as  the  Boston 
of  1835  such  intense  and  varied  individuality,  such 
intellectual  activity,  animated  by  so  high  a  moral 
purpose,  and  destined  to  exert  so  wide  and  permanent 
an  influence.  It  was  truly  the  Athens  of  America. 
It  contained  Daniel  Webster  —  glory  enough  for  one 
city  holding  one  such  citizen  —  but  around  him,  and 
not  far  off,  were  such  illustrious  fellow-citizens  as 
Edward  Everett,  John  Quincy  Adams,  Josiah  Quincy, 
Harrison  Grey  Otis,  Abbot  Lawrence,  Ellis  Gray  Lor- 
ing,  and  Dr.  Francis  Jackson,  the  discoverer  of  an 
aesthesia;  then  there  was  the  poet-preacher,  John 
Pierpont,  author  of  "Airs  of  Palestine"  and  "Deacon 
Giles's  Distillery,"  and  Lyman  Beecher,  the  great 
apostle  of  temperance;  Dr.  Channing,  the  great 
Unitarian  preacher;  and  there  was  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson,  also  a  Unitarian  preacher,  then  somewhat 


234  Memorial  Volume 

obscure,  and  on  the  point  of  quitting  Boston  and  the 
ministry  to  reside  in  Concord;  then  also,  of  the  younger 
generation  fast  rising  into  prominence,  there  were 
Charles  Sumner,  and  Wendell  Phillips,  and  Theodore 
Parker,  and  Lloyd  Garrison,  and  Joseph  T.  Bucking 
ham,  editor  of  the  Boston  Courier,  in  which  the  earlier 
productions  of  "Hosea  Biglow"  first  saw  the  light. 
James  Russell  Lowell  was  then  a  stripling  of  sixteen, 
and  just  entered  at  Harvard  College;  he  was  graduated 
in  1838,  and  in  1841  he  issued  his  first  volume  of 
poems,  entitled  "A  Year's  Life."  There  was  nothing 
distinctive  or  characteristic  about  this — it  was  neither 
better  nor  worse  than  the  first  fruits  of  many  a  genius, 
Byron's  '  'Hours  of  Idleness,"  for  instance.  In  Jan 
uary,  1843,  Lowell  became  editor  of  the  "Pioneer,"  or 
rather  joint  editor,  with  Robert  Carter.  Only  three 
numbers  were  published,  but  these  three — now  so 
scarce  as  to  bear  almost  any  price — contained  the  most 
remarkable  array  of  rising  talent  and  reputation  of, 
perhaps,  any  magazine  that  was  ever  published.  When 
we  mention  as  among  its  contributers  Poe,  Hawthorne, 
and  Miss  Elizabeth  Barrett  —  not  yet  Browning  — 
Whittier,  John  Neal,  and  the  musical  critic,  John  S. 
Dwight,  the  sculptor-poet,  W.  W.  Story,  and  Parsons, 
the  translator  of  Dante,  and  Jones  Very,  the  hermit- 
thrush  of  New  England  songsters  and  sonnetteers, 
we  have  said  enough  to  show  that  no  magazine  before 
or  since  could  ever  boast  such  a  rent-roll  of  genius  as 
this.  And  yet  it  failed  —  because  the  time  was  not 
ripe  for  a  magazine  of  the  lofty  aim  and  purely  literary 
character  sketched  out  by  Messrs.  Lowell  and  Carter. 
But  Lowell  was  not  discouraged,  and  in  the  following 
year,  1844,  he  published  the  "Legend  of  Brittany" 


of    ^fn  £atoar  235 


and  other  poems,  which  showed  a  great  advance  upon 
his  previous  volume,  and  contains  some  of  the  richest 
and  purest  poetry  he  has  ever  written.  No  one  ever 
described  the  effect  of  organ  music,  which 

"Grew  up  like  a  darkness  everywhere 
Filling  the  vast  cathedral," 

as  Lowell  has  in  this  poem;  and  it  is  needless  to  refer 
to  the  universally  quoted  passage  beginning: 

"What  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June?" 

But  notwithstanding  these  and  other  fine  things, 
Mr.  Lowell  did  not  make  any  distinct  mark,  nor  achieve 
popularity  at  a  bound,  as  did  his  neighbor,  Longfellow, 
by  his  "Voices  of  the  Night." 

Compared  to  ours,  it  was  an  age  of  romance,  and  the 
poet  of  romanticism  who  met  the  demands  of  taste 
and  fashion  of  the  hour  was  Longfellow.  Lowell's 
genius,  slow  to  mature  and  tardy  of  recognition,  and 
yet  solid  as  it  was  brilliant,  was  more  in  harmony  with 
to-day  than  the  genius  of  Longfellow,  and  it  will  grow 
rather  than  diminish  in  the  future. 

Here  are  four  lines  from  that  almost  forgotten  volume 
of  1844: 

"Proprieties  our  silken  bards  environ: 

He  who  would  be  the  tongue  of  this  wide  land 
Must  string  his  harp  with  chords  of  study  iron, 
And  strike  it  with  a  toil-embrowned  hand." 

Nothing  could  be  more  characteristic  of  the  poet  or 
of  our  time. 

In  1848,  appeared  anonymously  the  "Fable  for 
Critics."  It  is  full  of  fun  and  satire  and  excellent 
silhouette  pictures  of  the  American  authors  of  the 
time.  It  is  almost  too  witty;  and  there  is  no  let-up  on 


236  Jttemorial 


the  sense  parody  and  burlesque  that  runs  through  it  all. 
But  the  portraits  drawn  of  American  writers  are  faith 
ful  and  original,  and  so  true  to  life  as  to  be  recognized 
at  a  glance.  In  nearly  every  instance,  time  has 
confirmed  the  judgments  of  the  writer;  and  posterity, 
no  doubt,  will  ratify  the  verdict.  A  curious  testimony 
to  the  value  and  perspicacity  of  our  poet's  judgment 
is  the  fact  that  Thomas  Hughes,  a  friend  of  Lowell, 
and  author  of  "Tom  Brown  at  Rugby,"  has  suggested 
that  the  "Fable  for  Critics"  be  adopted  as  a  text 
book  for  criticism  in  the  schools. 

But  I  must  hurry  on.  I  come  now  to  the  work  on 
which,  it  appears,  the  permanent  fame  of  Mr.  Lowell, 
as  a  humorist  must  chiefly  rest.  Need  I  name  the 
"Biglow  Papers"?  These  had  their  origin  in  the 
political  circumstances  out  of  which  grew  the  annexa 
tion  of  Texas  and  its  sequel,  the  war  with  Mexico. 
And  here  it  is  to  be  distinctly  noticed  that  Lowell 
develops  for  the  first  time  what  may  be  called  the 
comic  vein.  He  associates  it,  also,  with  the  Yankee 
dialect;  and  while,  as  a  fact,  such  a  dialect  was  never 
spoken  in  New  England,  that  is,  pure  Yankee,  any 
more  than  such  a  character  as  the  traditional  Yankee  - 
the  creature  of  burlesque  and  the  comic  papers  —  ever 
existed  there,  it  is  nevertheless  true,  that  Lowell's 
writing,  in  all  "Biglow  Papers"  at  least,  is  the  echo 
of  that  homely  common  sense,  which,  as  he  says, 
'  'heated  and  vivified  by  conscience,  "  is  apt  to  be  spoken 
in  town-meeting  or  in  the  street,  at  the  cross-roads  or 
the  corner  grocery,  whenever  and  wherever  the  shrewd 
and  intelligent  rustic  is  challenged  or  provoked  to 
"say  things"  and  to  declare  his  real  sentiments  and 
opinions.  No  king  in  his  kingliest  prerogatives  ever 


of    tofn  <£afcar  237 


claimed  more  than  the  genuine  Yankee,  that  privilege, 
namely,  to  say  what  he  thinks.  He  may  say  it  in 
nasal  tones,  or  in  a  high-pitched  key,  but  you  are  never 
at  a  loss  for  his  meaning.  For  he  understands  himself, 
and  his  language  or  dialect,  which  smacks  of  the  soil, 
is  at  once  racy  and  original.  Lowell,  certainly,  was  the 
first  among  us  to  discover  all  the  wealth  of  poetic 
material  which  lay  hidden  in  this  curious  Yankee 
dialect.  He  was  fearful,  as  he  says,  that  he  might 
degrade  a  lofty  theme  and  a  noble  aim,  by  association 
with  ignoble  things  —  for  words  are  things  —  and  a 
great  many  Yankee  words,  if  not  positively  vulgar, 
are  what  would  be  called  "low"  and  dangerously  near 
to  slang  and  barbarism.  That  was  one  thing  to  be 
avoided;  and  the  other  way,  the  danger  of  being 
betrayed,  in  the  heat  of  controversy,  into  extreme 
statements  —  extravagance  of  phrase  or  avowals  not 
warranted  by  his  real  convictions.  It  was  the  old 
peril  of  steering  between  Scylla  and  Charybdis;  or, 
as  a  Yankee  legislator  once  warned  his  compatriots 
that  in  avoiding  Sally,  they  must  take  care  not  to 
fall  upon  Carrie  Davis. 

It  was  in  the  spring  or  summer  of  1846,  just  forty 
years  ago  —  and  the  Mexican  war  then  in  progress  — 
that  Ezekiel  Biglow,  as  he  calls  himself,  wrote  a  letter 
to  the  "Boston  Courier,"  enclosing  a  poem  in  dialect, 
purporting  to  be  written  by  his  son  "Hosea,"  and 
ridiculing  the  efforts  then  being  made  to  raise  vol 
unteers  in  Boston: 

"Thresh  away;  you'll  hev  to  rattle, 
On  them  kittle-drums  o'  yourn. 
Taint  a  knowin  kind  o'  cattle 

Thet  is  ketched  with  mouldy  corn." 


238  Wemotial  Volume 


It  was  a  new  note  struck  suddenly,  and  at  first 
nobody  knew  what  to  make  of  it.  '  'Society,"  of  course, 
was  disgusted.  The  critics  were  puzzled.  Pious 
editors  and  divines  were  shocked.  Even  the  anti- 
slavery  Sumner,  who  was  nothing  if  not  classical, 
gravely  shook  his  head,  and  thought  this  would  never 
do.  But  here  was  the  singer,  and  in  dead  earnest; 
here  were  the  unanswerable  arguments  of  Garrison, 
and  the  magnificent  invectives  of  Wendell  Phillips  set 
to  music,  in  the  airiest  and  most  lifting  rhythms? 
adorned  with  the  most  effective  speech,  the  choicest 
bits  of  current  slang,  the  homeliest  of  proverbial 
phrases,  and  tingling  with  the  free  spirit  that  had 
animated  his  ancesters,  a  line  of  fighting  Puritans  since 
Naseby  and  Marston  Moor.  The  anti-slavery  music 
was  in  the  air  and  everybody  had  to  hear  it. 

To  tell  you  how  Hosea  Biglow  continued  the  warfare, 
how  he  carried  it  on,  and  how  triumphantly  he  ended 
it,  would  be  simply  to  chronicle  the  greatest  moral  and 
literary  success  of  our  time.  In  a  word,  the  "Biglow 
Papers"  were  a  tremendous  hit.  Mr.  Lowell  became 
well  known,  not  only  to  millions  of  readers  in  this  coun 
try,  but  also  to  the  English,  who  appeared  to  take  as 
much  pride  in  his  genius  and  achievements  as  we  do. 
And  please  to  observe  this:  it  is  in  the  "Biglow  Papers" 
that  Mr.  Lowell's  genius  for  the  first  time  takes  on  a 
public  and  patriotic  character,  and  associates  his  name 
as  it  is  to  be  hereafter  forever  entwined  with  the  laurel 
of  civic  renown.  It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say,  that  if 
the  "Biglow  Papers"  had  not  been  written,  Mr. 
Lowell  would  never  have  gone  as  our  Minister  to  Spain 
and  England.  How  well  and  faithfully  he  performed 
that  service,  there  is  no  need  of  saying  here.  But  let 


of    Poln  £abar  239 


us  dwell  for  a  moment  on  the  characteristic  quality  of 
his  genius,  and  its  manifestation  in  broad  humor.  Mr. 
Lowell  was,  first  of  all,  a  humorist,  and  it  is  this  Rabe 
laisian  quality  which  flavors  all  the  productions  of  his 
genius.  He  is  also  a  wit,  and  a  satirist,  but  his  wit 
and  satire  are  subsidiary  to  his  humor,  and  are  inva 
riably  directed  against  grave  moral  abuses  and  vices 
of  the  time.  His  genius  is  original  and  comic,  but  one 
must  not  forget  that  the  springs  of  comedy  in  every 
great  writer  lie  close  to  tragedy  and  tears.  The 
original  element  and  substratum  of  humor  is,  perhaps, 
a  profound  melancholy.  This  humorous  melancholy 
drips  from  the  pen  and  even  the  walk  of  some  men, 
who  are  endowed  with  a  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous, 
as  was  Luther,  for  instance,  or,  to  take  a  more  recent 
example,  Abraham  Lincoln.  He  was  enabled  to  endure 
the  great  strain  of  office  in  his  time  because  he  found 
that  war  and  politics  in  this  country  are  only  tolerable 
to  a  man  gifted  with  a  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous. 
Another  man  in  his  place  would  have  been  driven  mad. 
And  when,  twenty-one  years  ago,  this  very  month  and 
day  of  the  week,  on  Bad  Friday,  his  fate  was  upon  him, 
and  the  land  was  showed  with  horror,  I  do  not  doubt 
that  his  melancholy  took  the  form  of  presentiment, 
though  he  whispered  it  not,  even  to  the  wife  of  his 
bosom.  I  can  scarcely  doubt  it,  for  I  had  seen  him 
but  barely  a  week  before,  walking  among  the  rows  of 
tents  on  the  high  and  grassy  plateau  of  the  James,  and 
I  then  remarked  that  despite  all  his  efforts  to  look 
cheerful,  and  despite  of  the  jests  which  he  constantly 
dropped  as  he  shook  hands  with  the  boys  in  blue,  there 
was  a  strange  and  far-away  look  in  his  eyes,  and  an 
expression  on  his  face,  when  he  thought  he  was  not 


240  jttemoriai  Volume 

observed,  of  the  most  utter  and  immutable  woe.  It 
was  as  if  all  the  sorrows  of  his  race,  or  of  another  one, 
had  settled  there,  and  his  spirit  was  dead  weary  with 
dragging  the  burden  and  the  pain.  And  this  when  the 
joy-bells  of  victory  were  ringing  in  his  ears,  and  the 
country  was  gone  wild  with  rejoicing  at  the  close  of  a 
long,  awful  and  desolating  war. 

If  I  speak  of  this,  it  is  only  as  a  crucial  instance  to 
prove  that  the  deepest  sorrow  and  the  blackest  and 
most  profound  melancholy  are  consistent  with  the 
brightest  and  gayest  humor.  It  plays  as  harmless 
heat-lightning  around  the  horizon  of  a  man's  thoughts, 
for  it  is  upon  such  a  dark  and  somber  background  that 
a  comic  genius  embroiders  its  wildest  gaieties,  its  most 
tender  and  beautiful  creatures  —  the  rainbow  to  the 
cloud  —  smiles  and  tears.  That  Mr.  Lowell's  genius 
was  thoroughly  steeped  in  this  humor,  in  all  of  its 
protean  manifestations,  goes  without  saying.  But  I 
think  it  will  be  the  unanimous  verdict  of  all  who  have 
ever  been  so  fortunate  as  to  meet  Mr.  Lowell  in  social 
intercourse,  as  I  am  sure  it  will  be  of  his  pupils  who  have 
met  him  in  the  class-room  or  the  study  at  Elmwood, 
that  the  impression  of  genius  derived  from  his  casual 
conversation  was  greater  and  stronger  than  even  that 
derived  from  his  writings.  I  know,  at  least,  that  the 
impression  is  more  vivid  and  complete  for  the  time 
being.  In  the  presence  of  this  man  of  genius,  who  to 
native  endowment  joins  the  rare  graces  of  scholarship 
and  the  air  of  an  accomplished  man  of  the  world,  one 
feels  more  than  he  can  describe  the  humor  that  is 
constantly  welling  up  in  conversation,  and  showing  its 
perpetual  gleam  in  looks  and  tones  and  gestures  as 
impossible  to  be  hidden  behind  the  soul's  mask  as  to  be 


of    ^on  £atoar  241 


caught  and  photographed  in  a  picture  or  a  printed 
book.  You  can  print  a  man's  joke  or  witticism,  but, 
unfortunately,  you  cannot  print  his  manner  of  saying 
it.  And  it  is  precisely  this  play  of  humor,  like  the 
shifting  of  light  and  color,  the  iridescence  on  the  neck 
of  the  dove,  which  gives  its  indescribable  charm  to 
Lowell's  conversation.  It  was,  of  course,  natural  that 
the  author  of  the  "Biglow  Papers"  should  be  something 
of  a  humorist,  but  did  it  ever  strike  you  that  he  has 
drawn  his  own  portrait,  in  describing  another  —  the 
landlord  of  the  Eagle  Inn  ? 

"He  sauntered  through  the  world  as  thro'  a  show, 

A  critic  fine  in  his  hap-hazard  way, 

A  sort  of  mild  La  Bruyere  on  half-pay. 
For  comic  weaknesses  he  had  an  eye 
Keen  as  an  acid  for  an  alkili. 

You  might  have  called  him  with  his  humorous  twist 

A  kind  of  human  entomologist. 
As  these  bring  home  from  every  walk  they  take 
Their  hat-crowns  stuck  with  bugs  of  curious  make, 

So  he  filled  all  the  lining  of  his  head 

With  characters  impaled  and  ticketed 
And  had  a  cabinet  behind  his  eyes, 
For  all  they  caught  of  mortal  oddities." 

Naturally  enough,  too,  he  complained  that  these 
"characters"  and  "oddities"  were  fast  disappearing 
with  the  old  mail  coach,  and  the  bluff  and  hearty  boni- 
face  of  the  village  inn.  The  Age  of  Machinery  crushed 
out  individuality,  and  the  fashion  of  Democracy,  with 
its  rolling  and  leveling  tendencies,  smoothed  out  all  the 
creases  of  character.  Our  school  system  turned  out 
the  average  man,  a  race  of  mediocrities  —  golden,  if 
you  choose  —  but  wearisome  to  look  at  and  contem 
plate,  as  so  many  pins  and  nails  regularly  dropped 
from  a  machine.  He  found  —  did  Hosea  Biglow  — 


242  ^iemorial  Bolume 


The  nat'ral  instincts  year  by  year  retire, 
As  deer  shrink  northward  from  the  settler's  fire, 
And  he  who  loves  the  wild-game  flavor  more 
Than  city-feasts,  where  every  man's  a  bore 
To  every  other  man,  must  seek  it  where 
The  steamer's  throb  and  railway's  iron  flare 
Have  not  yet  startled  with  their  punctual  stir 
The  shy  wood-wandering  brood  of  character. 

That  is  to  say,  in  out  of  the  way  nooks  and  corners,  of 
New  England  country  and  village  life,  places  where 
Repose  has  settled  down  in  a  Sleepy-Hollow  of  old 
ancestral  customs  and  traditions,  where  the  wood  gods 
have  not  been  scared  away  by  the  screech  of  the  railway 
whistle,  and  there  is  some  hope  even  of  getting  religion, 
or  at  least  of  not  losing  the  little  that  you  have. 

He  tells  you  the  kind  of  house  which  this  religion 
inherits,  how  it  grew,  and  was  painted  or  colored. 

"That  soft  lead-gray,  less  dark  beneath  the  eaves, 
Which  the  slow  brush  of  wind  and  weather  leaves, 
The  ample  roof  sloped  backward  to  the  ground 
And  vassal  lean-tos  gathered  thickly  round, 
Patched  on,  as  sire  or  son  had  felt  the  need, 
Like  chance  growths  sprouting  from  the  old  roof's  seed: 
Just  as  about  a  yellow  pine  tree  spring 
Its  rough-barked  darlings  in  a  filial  ring, 
But  the  great  chimney  was  the  central  thought 
Whose  gravitation  through  the  cluster  wrought, 

For  'tis  not  styles  far-fetched  from  Greece  or  Rome, 
But  just  the  Fireside  that  can  make  a  home." 

Contrasted  with  this  "broad-shouldered,  kindly  and 
debonair"  style  of  building  —  as  the  fathers  built  - 
with  the  great  square  chimney  in  the  middle,  are  the 
shaky, 

"Spindly  things  of  modern  style, 
Like  pins  stuck  through  to  stay  the  card-board  pile." 


of     on  £abar  243 


And  as  for  the  interiors  of  these  "card-houses,"  he  de 
scribes  one  thus: 

"There  was  a  parlor  in  the  house,  best  room, 
To  make  you  shudder  with  its  prudish  gloom. 
The  furniture  stood  round  with  such  an  air 
There  seemed  an  old  maid's  ghost  in  every  chair. 
Too  snugly  proper  for  a  world  of  sin, 
Like  boys  on  whom  the  minister  conies  in. 
The  table  fronting  you  with  icy  stare 
Tried  to  look  witless  that  its  legs  were  bare, 
While  the  black  sofa  with  its  horse-hair  pall 
Gloomed  like  the  bier  for  comfort's  funeral." 

From  this  dreadful  spot  which,  I  assure  you,  is  not 
an  exaggerated  or  untrue  description  of  the  parlor  or 
"best  room"  in  many  New  England  houses,  thirty  or 
forty  years  ago  —  the  poet  fled  to  the  tavern  —  where 
else  could  he  go?  and 

"Shall  I  confess?     The  tavern's  only  Lar 
Seemed  (be  not  shocked)  its  homely  featured  bar. 
Here  snapped  a  fire  of  beechen  logs,  that  bred 
Strange  fancies  in  its  embers  golden-red, 
And  nursed  the  loggerhead  where  hissing  dip, 
Timed  by  nice  instinct,  creamed  the  mug  of  flip, 
Which  made  from  mouth  to  mouth  its  genial  round 
Nor  left  one  nature  wholly  winter-bound. 
Hence  dropt  the  tinkling  coal  all  mellow-ripe 
From  Uncle  Reuben's  talk-extinguished  pipe; 
Hence  rayed  the  heat  as  from  an  indoor  sun 
That  wooed  forth  many  a  shoot  of  rustic  fun. 
Here  Ezra  ruled  as  king  by  right  divine, 
No  other  face  had  such  a  wholesome  shine; 
No  laugh  like  his  so  full  of  honest  cheer, 
Above  the  rest  it  crowed  like  Chanticleer." 

I  cannot  go  on  with  the  inventory  of  all  the  excellent 
qualities  of  this  king  of  landlords;  suffice  it  to  quote 
the  end,  where  the  poet  again,  unconsciously  no  doubt, 
in  describing  what  he  likes,  is  drawing  his  own  portrait. 


244  J&emorial  Bolume 

"A  natural  man  with  all  his  instincts  fresh, 
Not  buzzing  helpless  in  Reflection's  mesh, 
Firm  on  its  feet  stood  his  broad-shouldered  mind, 
As  bluffly  honest  as  a  north-west  wind. 
Hard-headed  and  soft-hearted,  you'd  scarce  meet 
A  kinder  mixture  of  the  shrewd  and  sweet." 

I  should  say  there  is  hardly  anywhere  a  better 
description  of  Mr.  Lowell  than  in  these  six  lines;  he 
is  his  own  Boniface  in  the  world  of  books  and  of  men, 
keeping  open  house  with  a  mind  hospitable  to  all 
knowledge  and  all  learners  or  seekers  after  knowledge 
who  came  knocking  at  his  door.  To  pass  an  evening 
with  Lowell  was  indeed  an  entertainment  which  no 
royal  Boniface  could  offer.  For  with  an  eye  to  '  'char 
acter"  and  to  the  "comic  weaknesses"  of  men,  his 
mind  has  become  a  veritable  museum  and  "old 
curosity  shop"  of  oddities  and  incidents,  which  you 
are  never  tired  of  hearing.  It  is  a  right  store  of 
"Yankee  notions"  which,  in  the  generosity  of  his  spirit, 
the  owner  keeps  not  for  gain  or  profit  to  himself,  but, 
as  it  seems,  for  the  pure  fun  of  the  thing,  and  for  the 
entertainment  of  guest  or  friend.  One  could  not  be 
five  minutes  with  Lowell,  but  he  was  sure  to  bring  out 
some  oddity  of  humor  or  character,  or  to  tell  a  good 
story,  or  to  utter  some  quaint  and  original  saying. 
We  know  there  are  a  sort  of  stories,  which  pass  from 
hand  to  hand,  or  say  from  mouth  to  mouth,  ancient 
and  mouldy  Joe  Millers  dropt  in  the  alms-bucket  of 
wit,  because,  like  bad  pennies,  they  do  not  keep,  and  will 
not  otherwise  circulate.  Mr.  Lowell  never  deals  in 
such.  His  wit  is  a  constant  surprise,  it  is  new,  and  has 
all  the  charm  and  unexpectedness  of  genius.  If  he 
tells  an  old  story,  he  makes  it  new  by  his  manner  of 
telling.  Then,  too,  he  has  such  a  prodigal  wit  and 


of    ^&tt  £atoar  245 


humor,  it  is  no  beggar's  wallet  that  is  opened  to  you, 
but  the  treasury  of  a  prince.  Between  him  and  his 
friend,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  whose  wit,  tho'  as 
abundant,  is  of  another  kind  and  quality  from  Mr. 
Lowell's,  it  is  impossible  to  sit  still  and  not  roar  with 
laughter.  You,  of  course,  remember  that  famous 
ballad  of  the  Doctor,  who  declares  at  the  end,  that  he 
"dares  not  be  as  funny  as  he  can."  Lowell,  on  the 
contrary,  is  more  like  his  own  Undine  in  '  'Beaver 
Brook,"  and  the  listener  like  the  miller,  is  not  aware 
of  the  intellectual  toil  and  research,  the  mere  scholar 
ship  expended  in  collecting  so  many  rarities.  He 

".     .     .     .     dreams  not  at  what  cost 

The  grinding  mill-stones  hum  and  whirl, 
Nor  how,  for  every  turn  are  lost 
Armfuls  of  diamond  and  of  pearl." 

In  some  respects  Mr.  Lowell's  wit  and  humor  have 
been  a  disadvantage  to  him  as  a  poet  in  the  popular 
esteem,  for,  just  as  a  pronounced  wit  or  jester  in  the 
House  is  not  credited  with  the  actual  wisdom  and 
statesmanship  which  he  possesses,  so,  men  will  persist 
in  not  seeing  a  great  and  genuine  poet  in  a  man  who  is 
always  wearing  the  cap  and  bells  of  the  jester  in  rhyme. 
The  truth  is,  Mr.  Lowell's  poetry  is  overloaded  with 
conceits.  He  is  like  the  tree  called  the  rock-maple, 
sound  at  the  core,  and  full  of  sweetness,  but  at  the 
same  time  very  knotty,  and  knurly.  It  makes  his 
poetry  the  (  'gnarled  and  unwedgable"  problem  of 
critics.  Compared  to  Bryant  or  Longfellow,  whose 
grain  is  clear  and  straight  as  pine  or  cedar,  Mr.  Lowell 
does  not  make  one  simple  and  uniform  impression,  and 
while  fully  as  original  and  not  below  either  of  the  elder 
bards  in  natural  endowment,  his  mind  is  so  choked  with 


246  temoriai  Bolume 


knowledge  and  with  continually  new  impressions,  that 
he  finds  it  far  more  difficult  than  they  did  to  hold  to 
his  natural  note,  or,  in  a  word,  to  be  himself.  For, 
though  it  may  sound  like  treason  to  say  it,  besides 
his  own  true  and  immortal  note  Mr.  Lowell  has  every 
body's  note  —  he  is  the  winged  mimic  and  mocking 
bird  of  genius. 

In  a  ruder  age,  and  before  a  rustic  audience,  with 
his  wonderful  power  of  mimicry,  he  would  have  played 
the  part  of  a  jongleur,  or,  if  his  figure  had  allowed  him, 
he  would  have  made  the  most  extravagant  of  Pan 
taloons.  But  I  sometimes  wish  that  he  were  neither 
a  mimic,  a  satirist,  nor  a  wit.  He  cannot,  of  course, 
help  the  crime  of  being  witty,  but  his  indulgence  in 
satire  and  in  the  habit  of  criticism  has,  in  my  opinion, 
greatly  injured  the  tone  and  quality  of  his  poetry.  It 
also,  I  think,  made  it  more  and  increasingly  difficult 
for  him  to  write  poetry.  Of  course,  I  do  not  know  this 
to  be  so,  or  that  the  great  rarity  of  Mr.  Lowell's  verse 
in  recent  years  has  any  other  cause  or  reason  for  it  than 
the  nature  of  his  occupations.  But  the  existence  in 
him  of  two  fully  developed  and  almost  contradictory 
faculties,  the  critical  and  the  poetical,  the  productivity 
of  the  latter  in  his  earlier  years,  and  the  preponderance 
of  critical  writing,  prose  essays  and  the  like,  in  his 
latter  age,  seems  to  favor  the  supposition.  It  may  be, 
with  the  growth  of  years  and  a  cultivated  taste,  that 
Mr.  Lowell  grew  so  fastidious  and  so  exigent  in  his 
demand  to  reach  a  high  and  yet  higher  standard  in 
poetry,  and  finding  that  his  poetic  faculty  was  more 
rarely  appealed  to,  his  muse  less  responsive  than  for 
merly,  and  possibly  less  equal  to  the  demands  made 
upon  her,  that  Mr.  Lowell  has  concluded  to  abandon 


of     on  £afrat  247 


poetry,  and  henceforth  to  write  nothing  but  prose 
essays  and  criticism.  If  so,  I,  for  one,  deplore  his 
resolution. 

I  remember  distinctly  the  feeling  of  pain  and  loss 
that  came  over  me  when,  so  far  back  as  the  spring  of 
1867,  Mr.  Lowell  announced  through  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  that  he  should  never  again  appear  as  the 
author  of  any  more  "Biglow  Papers."  Yet  less  than 
a  year  before  that  he  had  written  the  noble  "Com 
memoration  Ode,"  and  only  a  few  years  later  he  put 
forth  the  "Cathedral"  and  a  little  volume  entitled 
"Under  the  Willows."  There  was  nothing  in  these  to 
justify  any  distrust  of  failing  powers  on  the  part  of  the 
poet,  and  the  public  welcome  was  hearty  and  in 
stantaneous.  Then  came,  not  long  afterwards,  the 
poet's  appointment  to  an  important  place  in  the  diplo 
matic  service.  Being  as  he  was,  from  crown  to  sole? 
an  American  and  a  Yankee  —  as  genuinely  Yankee  as 
he  was  completely  American  —  I  have  always  looked 
upon  him  as  the  best  and  truest  representative  of 
Democracy  which  this  Western  World  ever  sent  to  the 
Courts  of  Europe.  But  much  as  I  have  admired  Mr. 
Lowell's  political  course,  and  proud  as  we  all  are  of  the 
lustre  he  has  shed  upon  diplomacy  and  letters  abroad 
and  of  the  sturdy  manhood  which  supported  both,  I 
feel  now,  that  none  too  soon  for  the  good  of  American 
letters  and  for  the  poet's  permanent  fame,  the  :ime 
had  come  to  wash  himself  of  affairs  and  to  devote  the 
remnant  of  his  days  in  undivided  allegiance  to  his 
first  love  —  to  Poesy,  in  truth! 

He  cannot,  and  he  ought  not,  to  forget  his  calling, 
nor  the  voice 

"Obeyed  at  eve,  obeyed  at  Prime." 


248  Memorial  Volume 

Great  is  the  need  of  him  now  to  exercise  his  poetic 
faculty.  For  whom  have  we  left?  Emerson  is  gone 
and  Longfellow  is  gone.  Dana  and  Bryant  went 
before.  Holmes  and  Whittier  have  not  gone,  but  they 
totter  on  the  verge.  If  they  occasionally  strike  a  note 
with  something  of  the  old-time  fire  and  sweetness,  it 
seems  like  a  reminiscence,  not  prophecy.  Yes,  the 
Bards  of  America  are  gone,  or  going.  As  Vaughan,  the 
Silurist,  said  of  his  early  friends,  so  might  Lowell  say 
of  his  brother  bards:  "They  have  all  gone  into  that 
world  of  light,"  and  I  alone  sit  lingering  here.  They 
have  gone  from  whence  no  sound  of  the  Master's  harp, 
no  tremble  of  the  echoing  lyre,  floats  down  to  our  listen 
ing  ears.  How  forlorn  it  leaves  us  in  a  world  without 
hope,  and  an  age  without  inspiration!  Life  un 
sweetened  by  the  Muse  has  a  bitter  taste  in  the 
mouth.  We  seem  to  be  standing  on  the  edge,  and 
already  advancing  into  one  of  those  immeasurable 
sand  deserts  of  time  which  divide  the  most  fruitful 
centuries  with  intervening  spaces  of  intellectual  barren 
ness  and  exhaustion.  As  if  one  should  hear,  for  a  time, 
the  music  of  the  spheres  and  after  that,  grating  discords 
of  the  earth. 

As  far  as  poetry  is  concerned,  we  are  undoubtedly 
living  in  a  barren  time.  We  have  exchanged  romance 
for  reality,  and  inspiration  for  mechanism. 

It  is  the  era  of  the  advent  of  science,  of  the  Annual 
Cyclopedia,  and  of  useful  facts.  The  day  of  Oratory, 
it  is  often  said,  is  gone  by.  And  so,  I  fear,  it  is  with 
Poetry.  Science  is  the  new  Jove,  and  his  reign  prom 
ises  to  be  as  hard,  as  bitter,  and  tyrannical  as  the  old. 
How  shall  poets  endure  the  reign?  Against  it  cry  out 
the  eternal  instincts,  longings  and  aspirations  of  the 
human  soul. 


of    ^n  £afoar  249 


Poesy,  like  Prometheus,  snatching  fire  from  heaven, 
is  all  that  feeds,  cherishes  and  keeps  alive  the  immortal 
spirit  in  man.  How  can  you  reconcile  Poesy  with 
Science,  her  most  inveterate  foe?  Science  has  feet  of 
clay,  but  the  head  of  Poesy  is  *  'crowned  with  spiritual 
fire  and  touching  other  worlds."  Shall  the  feet  rebel 
against  the  head?  —  or  shall  they  even  reverse  their 
positions?  That  would  be  to  treat  humanity  like 
St.  Peter,  who  was  crucified  head  downwards.  Shall 
Jove  again  nail  Prometheus  to  the  Caucasus  of  his 
frosty  scorn  ?  And  what  can  wit  avail  if  it  does  not  help 
us,  does  not  liberate,  nor  soften  with  humane  letters 
the  rigor  of  the  time?  What,  after  all,  are  wit  and 
satire  but  the  crackling  of  thorns  under  a  pot?  Does 
it  boil  the  poor  man's  dinner,  or  make  him  feel  more 
comfortable  while  eating  it? 

And  pray,  what  good  does  criticism  do?  My 
feeling  is,  Throw  criticism  to  the  dogs  —  I'll  none  of  it. 
Yes,  throw  it  to  the  dogs  —  of  the  Press,  I  mean  —  for 
they  are  the  true  Cynics,  always  snarling  and  biting. 
But  no  poet,  who  respects  himself  or  his  calling,  ever 
descends  to  criticism.  Mr.  Longfellow  never  did. 
Mr.  Bryant  sometimes  did,  and  was  so  much  the  less  a 
poet  thereby.  For  my  part,  I  have  never  forgiven 
Bryant  for  taking  an  editor's  chair,  instead  of  taking 
the  laurel  wreath  from  the  hand  of  Apollo.  It  was 
like  giving  up  inspiration  for  brandy-and-water. 
Bryant  should  have  given  Graylock  a  tongue,  as  Byron 
did  the  Alps:  but  he  chose  to  discuss  the  tariff.  Others 
were  found  who  could  do  that  as  well  as  he,  but  only 
Bryant  could  write  Thanatopsis.  So  Mr.  Lowell 
has  written  the  keenest  satire,  the  most  trenchant 
criticism,  the  most  able,  scholarly  and  entertaining 
essays  of  any  American  writer. 


250  Memorial  Volume 

But  a  single  poem  of  his  —  perhaps  a  single  verse  - 
will  outline  all  the  prose  he  has  ever  written. 

"The  poet's  mind  is  a  temple;  to  make  it  a  thoroughfare 
is  to  make  the  fane  profane  —  it  is  soilure  and  profanation. % 

Mr.  Lowell,  at  home  and  abroad,  has  bought  golden 
opinions  of  all  sorts  of  people,  but  when  the  gloss  is 
worn  off  how  will  he  sustain  his  borrowed  dignity? 
If  he  goes  to  sleep  upon  his  laurels  he  will  find,  on 
awaking,  the  wreath  which  he  has  worn  so  well  and 
gracefully  will  have  faded,  and  only  the  "garland  and 
singing  robes"  of  Apollo  will  serve  him;  nor  these, 
unless  he  resume  the  great  office  which  he  formerly 
laid  down.  He  is  now  better  qualified  than  ever  before, 
and  then,  also,  the  great,  golden  opportunity  of  his 
life  is  come.  My  conception  of  a  poet  is  not  that  of  a 
pale  and  interesting  youth,  but  of  a  magnificent,  gray- 
headed  man,  with  the  eye  of  an  eagle  and  the  fresh 
heart  of  a  boy.  Or  it  is  that  of  a  cosmic  intelligence 
dominated  by  a  brain-heart  of  a  human,  the  universal 
soul  and  sympathies  of  a  Shelley  or  a  Shakespere,  a 
Plato  or  a  Virgil,  a  Homer  or  a  Hugo.  Sophocles,  at 
the  age  of  eighty,  was  not  too  old  to  begin  a  new  work, 
and  the  marionet  play  of  "Faust"  murmured  to  the  last 
in  the  mighty  mind  of  Goethe.  They  were  about  their 
business.  Wherever  a  man  is  bent  upon  the  accom 
plishment  of  a  great  work,  time  and  opportunity  are 
never,  or  rarely  ever,  lacking.  Dante  lived  to  com 
plete  the  Divine  Comedy,  and  Prospero  did  not  break 
his  magic  wand,  or  bury  his  book,  till  their  creator  had 
retired  from  the  stage  after  writing  the  Tempest. 
Power  was  given  them  to  finish  their  work.  But  they 
knew  no  more  of  the  mystery  of  the  genius  that  pos- 


of    fofm  £atoar  251 


sessed  them  than,  probably,  we  know  to-day.  Genius 
is  taking  pains,  says  Carlyle.  It  is  the  power  to  toil 
terribly  says  another.  But  words  nor  phrases  can 
explain  genius  to  us.  We  only  know  it  when  it  appears. 
And  how  precious  it  is,  we  know  by  its  exceeding  rarity. 
Enough  that  Mr.  Lowell  has  it.  To  the  endowment  of 
original  genius  fortified  by  study  and  travel,  he  adds 
the  discipline  of  a  university,  not  at  Cambridge  only? 
where,  as  student  and  professor  he  has  lived  for  more 
than  forty  years,  but  in  that  greater  university  of  the 
world  which  graduates  the  men  of  action  and  the  men 
of  affairs,  which  produces  the  senior  wrangler  in  pol 
itics,  the  double-firsts  in  war  and  trade,  the  social 
dukes  and  leaders  of  opinion,  railroad  kings  and  mer 
chant  princes,  and  the  patent  nobility  of  letters,  of 
science,  and  of  art.  For,  as  no  knowledge  can  come 
amiss  to  the  poet,  so  neither  can  the  education  of 
circumstances,  or  any  experience  of  mankind  and  the 
world. 

"Sence  I  begun  to  scribble  rhyme, 

I  tell  ye  wut,  I  hain't  been  foolin'  : 
The  parson's  books,  life,  death,  an'  time 

Hev  took  some  trouble  with  my  schoolin': 
Nor  th'airth  don't  git  put  out  with  me, 

Thet  love  her'z  though  she  wuz  a  woman; 
Why,  th'ain't  a  bird  upon  the  tree 

But  half  forgives  my  bein'  human." 

No,  there  is  not,  nor  is  there  anything  in  the  world,  — 

"Sights  innercent  as  babes  on  knee 

Peaceful  ez  eyes  o'  pastur'd  cattle,  —  : 

Which  does  not  appeal  to  the  heart  of  a  poet. 

But  the  poet  who  is  also  a  seer  and  sacred,  as  the 
bards  of  old,  must  hold  aloof  from  the  world's  business, 
nor  meddle  with  its  affairs,  the  better  in  order  to  attend 


252  lemorial  Volume 


strictly  to  his  own.  He  should  have  knowledge  and 
insight  into  all  things,  but  the  care  and  management 
of  none.  Above  all,  he  should  be  irrevocably  bound  to 
the  Muse,  and  everlastingly  vowed  to  her  service. 
For  she  alone  is  sovereign  over  all  his  life  and  actions. 
And  it  is  no  light  offense  to  commit  lese-majeste  against 
the  Muse!  Her  smile  is  life  to  him,  her  frown  is  death. 
This  high  and  haughty  love  admits  no  rival,  and  no 
interruption.  Infidelities  are  sternly  punished.  His 
neglect  of  her  is  repaid  with  scorn,  his  indifference  with 
contempt  and  speedy  oblivion.  Favor  indeed  may  be 
lost  without  fault,  and  restoration  then  is  easy.  It  is 
usually  made  contingent  on  good  behavior,  and  on 
return  to  allegiance.  But  wilful  disobedience,  con 
tumacy,  is  severely  punished.  Nor  is  it  less  so  because, 
to  speak  harmoniously,  the  muse  is  a  woman,  subject 
to  caprices,  and  female  sovereigns  are,  of  all  others,  the 
most  easily  offended  and  the  hardest  to  placate,  or  to 
forgive.  Celestial  anger  to  celestial  minds.  But,  to 
quit  metaphor  and  ambiguous  expressions,  the  plain 
prose  of  it  is  that  the  man  who  habitually  affronts  his 
genius  and  runs  counter  to  the  divine  purpose  in  his 
making  must  suffer  the  consequences.  If  he  be  a 
poet  born,  as  well  as  made,  and  allow  himself  to  do 
that  which  others  can  do  as  well  or  better,  and  he 
neglects  that  which  he  alone  can  do  better  than  others, 
he  will  lose  then  his  native  gift,  he  will  be  disinherited 
of  his  birthright,  he  will  suffer  degeneration  of  the 
poetic  faculty,  a  fatness  of  wit,  dulness  of  sight  and 
taste,  and  hearing,  and  at  length,  silence,  spiritual 
death,  the  mouldering  lyre. 

But  if  there  is  a  sadder  sight  than  a  fallen  roof-tree, 
or  a  ruined  castle,  it  is  the  sight  of  a  man  who  has 


of     ofn  £atoar  253 


outlived  his  soul.  Mr.  Lowell  will  never  wrong  him 
self,  his  friends,  or  the  world's  music  in  that  way.  Why 
should  he?  He  is  apparently  full  of  life  and  vigor,  he 
has  health  and  competence,  and  a  perspective  of  many 
days  yet  before  him.  And  they  are  his  best  days  — 
the  sweet  light  and  golden  air,  the  halcyon  seas,  the 
soft  malancholy,  the  settled  calm  of  autumnal  weather 
-  the  bright  and  beautiful  Indian  summer  days  of  a 
retired  life  and  leisure. 

Has  he  any  regrets  or  sorrows?  Undoubtedly. 
"Sorrow  is  the  inseparable  companion  of  man.  But 
where  Love  has  once  trodden  at  his  side,  and  has  only 
flown  a  little  before,  Sorrow  comes  and  softly  takes  the 
vacant  place,  and  so  insensibly  adapts  herself  to  the 
ways  of  man  that  ere  he  is  aware  of  it  he  looks  upon  the 
face  of  Sorrow  as  a  friend.  Faithful  indeed  are  the 
wounds  of  this  friend.  And  if  he  also  be  faithful  he 
will  discover,  in  the  end,  that  he  has  walked  with  an 
angel  unaware." 

"And  as  it  might  happen  that  a  man  seeking  silver 
should,  beyond  his  expectations,  find  gold,  which  a 
hidden  chance  presents  to  him,  not  perhaps  without 
Divine  direction:  so  I,  who  sought  for  consolation, 
found  not  only  a  remedy  for  my  tears,  but  also  acquaint 
ance  with  authors,  with  knowledge,  and  with  books." 


BROWNING'S   ITALIAN  JOURNEYS 

The  interest  which  attaches  to  "haunts  and  homes" 
of  famous  poets  induces  me  to  transcribe  here  certain 
notes,  made  originally  for  my  own  convenience,  in 
keeping  track  of  the  poet's  wanderings  over  northern 


254  Memorial 


France  and  Italy,  after  the  death  of  his  wife  at  Florence 
in  1861. 

The  event  which  broke  up  his  household,  and  made 
him  from  that  time  forth,  to  some  extent,  a  homeless 
man  and  a  wanderer,  marks  the  beginning  of  that  pro 
found  spiritual  nostalgia  which,  from  sheer  restlessness, 
drove  him  to  seek  rest  in  solitude  and  in  work  wherever 
he  could  find  it.  He  sought  rest  and  recreation  where 
Dante  had  sought  it  before  him,  in  the  cloistral  solitude 
of  the  Appenines,  and  with  the  same  result.  He 
plunged  into  the  distractions  of  great  cities,  and  buried 
himself  for  months  at  a  time  in  some  obscure  seaport 
town,  some  fishing  village  of  the  Breton  folk,  or  inland, 
among  the  simple  Norman  peasantry  who  served  him 
at  once  as  background  and  material  for  his  poetic 
dramas.  It  is  to  these  excursions  and  summer  resi 
dences  that  we  owe  the  '  'Red  Cotton  Nightcap  Coun 
try."  the  "Inn  Album,"  "La  Saisiaz,"  "Two  Poets 
of  Croissiac,"  "Aristophanes'  Apology,"  and  others. 
His  teeming  brain  was  never  still,  and  his  wealth  of 
poetic  material  and  suggestion  depended  largely  upon 
this  shifting  of  the  point  of  view.  And  so  he  alter 
nated  from  his  "at  home"  in  the  London  season  to 
these  annual  periodical  visits  either  to  the  French 
coast  of  Brittany  and  Normandy,  or  to  his  old  Italian 
haunts,  the  ground  of  his  first  love  and  happy  marriage 
with  the  woman  who  taught  him  that 

"To  learn  so  simple  a  lesson, 

Need  one  go  to  Paris  or  Rome? 
That  the  many  make  the  household, 
But  'tis  one  that  makes  the  home." 

For  many  years  he  seems  to  vibrate  between  London 
and  Venice,   till  a  third  and  more  potent  attraction 


of    tofw  £atoar  255 


came  between,  so  that  he  hovered,  as  it  were,  midway, 
suspended  over  one  spot  which  fixed  his  wavering  in 
clination  and  determined  the  choice  of  what  was 
meant  to  be  his  last  refuge,  as  the  poet  had,  indeed, 
performed  his  last  pilgrimage  on  earth.  Prospicel 
It  was  a  lovely  spot  in  the  Euganean  Hills,  commanding 
an  extensive  view  of  the  plains  of  Lombardy,  and 
happily  framed  in  a  vast  horizon  comprehending  the 
picturesque  of  mediaeval  art  and  nature,  the  theatre, 
also  of  many  renowned  actions,  sieges  and  battlefields 
of  historic  note  in  ancient  and  modern  times.  But,  it 
so  happened  that  when  the  last  obstacle  to  possession 
was  overcome,  and  the  title  deed  lay  ready  to  be 
signed,  the  poet  was  already  past,  or  passing  to  the 
unseen  world.  I  remember,  as  a  curious  coincidence, 
that  on  the  Christmas  eve  of  1889  I  was  lying  in  bed 
and  holding  in  hand  a  new  book  which  was  the  season 
able  gift  of  an  old  friend.  The  volume,  "Asolando," 
was  the  last  which  the  poet  ever  penned,  and  it  was 
named  for  the  place  which  Robert  Browning  was  not 
to  inherit  in  this  world.  The  memory  of  this  incident 
is  the  more  vivid,  because  I  was  then  suffering  from  a 
painful  malady,  but  it  did  not  prevent  my  composing 
a  sonnet  on  the  last  yearning  and  soaring  of  the  "Old 
Eagle,"  as  he  passed  out  of  sight  and  beyond  the 
night:  it  was  the  I2th  of  December,  and  the  English 
papers  which  I  had  were  full  of  the  accounts  of  that 
memorable  passing. 

In  the  following  narrative,  which  is  patched  up  from 
various  sources,  but  mainly  from  the  "Letters  of  Robert 
Browning,"  by  Mrs.  Sutherland  Orr,  no  attempt  is 
made  to  cover  the  entire  twenty  years'  wanderings  of 
our  Ulyssean  poet  over  Italy,  any  farther  than  as  they 


256  Hemorial  Bolume 


may  be  deemed  to  hold  the  psychological  moment  of 
interest  to  the  casual  reader  and  observer.  But  the 
reader  is,  at  least,  expected  to  trust  me,  absolutely, 
with  holding  of  the  true  divining-rod  of  Poesy,  for  his 
own  right  guidance  in  these  devious  wanderings 
among  the  bridle-paths  of  Italy,  as  well  as  in  the  tall 
and  great  dark  wood,  salvaggia  oscura,  of  Robert 
Browning's  '  Works"  for  the  descriptive  passages,  not 
many  but  much,  illustrative  of  his  journeyings. 
To  begin  with,  one  must  premise  that 


VENICE  AND  ASOLO 

were  the  two  foci  of  attraction.  In  either  place  he 
bargained  for  a  house  where  he  could  take  refuge  for 
his  contentment,  but  was  not  destined  to  find  it  in 
either.  "You  don't  know  Venice?  Well,  open  your 
eyes  with  a  big  surprise,  when  I  inform  you  that  I 
have  purchased  the  Manzoni  palace  here,  on  the 
Canal  Grande,  of  its  owner,  Marchese  Montecucculi, 
an  Austrian  and  an  absentee."  The  palazzo  Manzoni 
is  situate  on  the  Grand  Canal  and  is  described  by 
Ruskin  as  "a  perfect  and  very  rich  example  of  Byzan 
tine  Renaissance:  its  warm  marbles  are  magnificent." 
And  again,  "an  exquisite  example  of  Byzantine  Renais 
sance  as  applied  to  domestic  architecture."  So  testify 
"The  Stones  of  Venice." 

But,  the  Austrian  gentleman,  whose  property  it  was, 
at  the  last  moment  put  forward  unexpected,  not  to  say, 
unreasonable,  claims;  and  his  (Browning's)  son,  who 
remained  on  the  spot,  having  been  informed  on  com 
petent  authority  that  the  foundations  of  the  house 
were  insecure,  withdrew  from  the  negotiations. 


of    ^ljn  £atoar  257 


There  was  one  other  palace  of  great  interest  to  Robert 
Browning  in  Venice;  it  was  the  palace  of  the  Countess 
Mocenigo,  which  Byron  occupied.  "She  (the  Count 
ess)  is  a  charming  widow  since  two  years  —  young, 
pretty,  and  of  the  prettiest  manners:  she  showed  us 
all  the  rooms  Byron  had  lived  in,  and  I  wrote  my 
name  in  her  album  on  the  desk  (which  he)  himself 
wrote  the  last  canto  of  Ch.  Harold  and  Beppo  upon." 

Robert  Browning  daily  walked  with  his  sister,  as 
he  did  in  the  mountains,  for  exercise,  and  the  pleasure 
it  afforded  him.  He  explored  Venice  in  all  directions, 
and  learned  to  know  its  many  points  of  beauty  and 
interest,  as  those  cannot  who  believe  it  is  only  to  be 
seen  from  a  gondola:  and  when  he  had  visited  its 
every  corner,  he  fell  back  on  a  favorite  stroll  along  the 
River  to  the  Public  Garden  and  back  again. 

Later  still,  when  a  friend's  gondola  was  always  at 
hand,  and  air  and  sunshine  were  the  one  thing  need 
ful,  he  would  be  carried  to  the  Lido,  and  take  a  long 
stretch  on  its  farther  shore. 


ALPINE   RETREATS 

'  'My  sister  and  I  used  to  walk  for  a  couple  of  hours 
up  a  mountain  road  of  the  most  lovely  description,  and 
stop  at  the  summit,  where  we  looked  down  upon  the 
minute  hamlet  of  St.  Pierre  d'Intrement,  even  more 
secluded  than  our  own;  then  we  got  back  to  our  own 
aforesaid.  And  in  this  Paradisial  place,  they  found, 
yesterday  week,  a  murdered  man."  (For  details  of 
this  tragedy  and  its  motif,  see  "Life  and  Letters  of 
Robert  Browning,"  pp.  335-36.  And  also,  "The  Ring 
and  the  Book.")  Writing,  evidently,  from  the  same 


258  Jttemoriai  Volume 

place,  Sept.  3,  1882,  to  Mrs.  Fitz-Gerald,  Robert 
Browning  says:  "It  is  the  loveliest  country  I  ever 
had  experience  of,  and  we  shall  prolong  our  stay  per 
haps."  (He  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  spend  the 
month  of  October  with  Mr.  Cholmondeley  at  his  villa 
in  Ischia,  but  the  engagement  was  broken  off,  in  con 
sequence  of  the  death  of  a  young  lady,  a  guest  of  the 
host,  she  having  imprudently  attempted  the  ascent  of 
a  dangerous  mountain  without  a  guide,  and  lost  her 
life  in  the  experiment.) 


LA  SAISIAZ 

August  17,  1877,  writing  to  Mrs.  Fitz-Gerald, 
"How  lovely,"  he  says,  "is  this  place  in  its  solitude  and 
seclusion,  with  its  trees  and  shrubs  and  flowers,  and 
above  all,  its  live  mountain  stream,  which  supplies 
three  fountains  and  two  delightful  baths,  a  marvel  of 
delicate  delight  framed  in  with  trees  —  I  bathe  there 
twice  a  day  —  and  then  what  wonderful  views  from 
the  chalet  on  every  side!  Geneva  lying  under  us, 
with  its  lake  and  the  whole  plain  bounded  by  the  Jura 
and  our  own  Saleve,  which  latter  seems  rather  close 
behind  our  house,  and  yet  takes  a  hard  hour  and  a  half 
to  ascend.  All  this  you  can  imagine,  since  you  know 
the  environs  of  the  town;  the  peace  and  quiet  move  me. 
And  I  fancy  I  shall  drowse  out  the  two  months  or 
more,  doing  no  more  serious  work  than  reading  —  and 
that  is  virtuous  renunciation  of  the  glorious  views  to 
my  right  here  —  as  I  sit  aerially  like  Euripides,  and 
see  the  clouds  come  and  go,  and  the  view  change  in 
correspondence  with  them." 


of     oJjn  £atoar  259 


This  letter  will  bear  comment.  Mr.  Browning  was 
more  than  quiescent  during  this  stay  in  the  Savoyard 
mountains  (southern  slope  of  the  Alps).  He  was 
unusually  depressed,  which  might  be  due,  in  part,  to 
that  special  oppressive  heat  of  the  Swiss  valleys,  which 
ascends  with  them  to  almost  their  highest  level. 
When  he  said  that  the  Saleve  seemed  close  behind  the 
house,  he  was  saying  in  other  words,  that  the  sun  beat 
back  from,  and  the  air  was  intercepted  by,  it. 

A  touch  of  autumnal  freshness  had  hardly  crept  into 
the  atmosphere  of  the  Saleve,  when  a  moral  thunder 
bolt  fell  on  the  little  group  of  persons  domiciled  at  its 
base;  Miss  Egerton-Smith,  in  what  had  seemed  for 
her  unusually  good  health,  died  in  the  act  of  preparing 
for  a  mountain  excursion  with  her  friends.  Mr. 
Browning  was  for  the  moment  paralyzed  by  the  shock. 
(See  the  dedicatory  verses  to  A.  E.  S.  in  "La  Saisiaz".) 
This  poem  contains,  besides  its  personal  references  and 
associations,  elements  of  distinctive  biographical  in 
terest.  It  is  the  author's  first,  as  also  last,  attempt  to 
reconstruct  his  Hope  of  Immortality,  by  a  rational 
process  based  entirely  on  the  facts  of  his  own  knowledge 
and  consciousness  —  God  and  the  human  soul;  and 
while  the  very  assumption  of  these  facts,  as  basis  for 
reasoning,  places  him  at  issue  with  scientific  thought, 
there  is,  in  his  way  of  handling  them,  a  tribute  to  the 
scientific  spirit,  foreshadowed  in  the  beautiful  epilogue 
to  Dramatis  Personce,  but  of  which  there  is  no  trace  in 
his  earlier  religious  work.  (Life  and  Letters,  p.  318.) 
It  is  conclusive  both  in  form  and  matter  as  to  his 
heterodox  attitude  towards  Christianity.  (See  '  'Death 
in  the  Desert,"  "Christmas  Eve,"  and  "Easter  Day.") 

JOHN  SAVARY. 


260  Memorial 


OUR   "ANNUS  MIRABILIS" 

[WRITTEN  BY  JOHN  SAVARY  FOR  THE  SUNDAY  REPUBLICAN.] 

I 

Since  Dryden  wrote  before  the  age  of  cables, 
Whatever  struck  his  fancy  apt  to  find 

In  one  year's  happenings  its  remarkables,  — 
What  hinders  me,  a  bard  unknown,  of  mind 
To  follow  in  his  footsteps  far  behind, 

For  treasure-trove  along  the  shore  sublime, 

Saved  from  the  wrecks  and  deluges  of  time? 

There  met  me  one  "They  Say,"  a  creature  tame, 
Plumed  with  a  myriad  plumes  and  all  for  hire, 

The  avant-courier  of  Common  Fame: 

Defoe,  or  Dryden,  who,  instructed  by  her, 
Wrote  of  Dutch  wars  and  purifying  fire, 

Shall  be  my  model,  compassing  in  rhyme 

The  brief  abstract  and  chronicle  of  the  time. 

Where  to  begin?  since  all  men  near  or  far 

On  safe  ground  meeting,  commonplace,  by  chance 

Talk  of  the  weather,  its  phenomena, 

With  due  regard  to  time  and  circumstance, 
So  here  my  sable  banner  to  advance, 

I  multiply  the  storm-wind  by  the  cloud 

That  sings  and  weaves  of  mariners  the  shroud. 

I  call  to  mind  among  a  thousand  more 

Such  scenes,  one  single  circumstance,  of  power 

To  stamp  itself  an  image  of  that  shore 

Of  wreck  and  ravage,  the  dark  midnight  hour 
Of  tempest  singing  over  roof  and  tower, 

And,  dawn-descried  off  Hatteras,  afar 

One  sailor  riding  on  his  lashed  lone  spar. 


of    ^tt  £afcar  201 


What   storms,   what   shipwrecks,   what   heart-rending 

blows 
Have  marked  this  year  of  memorable  theme! 

Search  through  the  files,  and  what  do  they  disclose? 
Tornado,  tempest,  cloudburst,  and  the  learn 
Of  the  red  levin  when  the  rack  a-stream 

Has  raked  the  highlands,  lashed  the  lowland  plains, 

And  drowned  whole  villages  in  torrential  rains. 

Here,  so  to  say,  upon  my  native  heath 

The  bolt  descended,  and  the  breath  was  done, 

Gone  from  the  bodies  of  six  men  beneath 
One  roof,  and  lo!  when  summertide  was  on 
The  Capital,  broad  streets  like  rivers  run 

Potomac-wards.     The  storm  along  the  shore 

Submerged  Winchester,  unroofed  Baltimore. 

And  the  Metropolis,  the  Magdalene 
Of  cities  greatest,  foulest  yet  sublime, 

For  thirty  hours  submitted  to  be  clean 
Of  outward  stain,  amidst  the  awful  time 
Of  purification  from  her  sluttish  slime: 

Wrapt  in  a  foggy  cloud,  she  stood  to  wring 

Her  watered  silks  out,  wet  and  shivering. 

The  Jersey  meadows,  overflowed,  were  mown 
Later  this  year,  the  live  stock  swim  or  drown. 

Tall  corn  was  lodged  in  country  places  grown; 
Washouts  occurred,  and  bridges  eke  went  down. 
Farmhouses  from  the  crumbling  banks  that  crown 

Schuylkill  and  Delaware,  sailed  off  entire; 

Seven  kine  went  whirling  out  in  barn  or  byre! 


262  Memorial  Volume 

Enough  of  "moving  accidents"  like  these, 
The  reader  will  recall  a  thousand  more. 

Each  tells  the  tidings  that  he  hears  or  sees 

Of  drouth,  fire,  flood,  and  many  a  shipwrackt  shore. 
For  fear  I  may  be  set  down  as  a  bore, 

Or  garrulous  old  man,  I  fly  the  track, 

And  just  for  one  thing  only  I  hark  back. 

The  altered  seasons  as  interpreters 

Showed    the    distempered    world;     March    not    so 

cold 
As  April  was;  May  drouth;  then  overcoats  and  furs 

And  fires  in  June.     Summer  and  winter  rolled 

Together  made  concatenation  bold, 
As  when  Titania  to  her  Oberon  tost 
Discord,  the  ground  of  all,  at  Nature's  cost. 

What  if  I  told  you  '  'hoary-headed  frost 
Fell  in  the  fresh  lap  of  the  crimson  rose"? 

That  late  as  August  Denver  played  the  host 
To  entertain  our  Lady  of  the  Snows? 
And  one  assured  me  well  who  Norway  knows, 

He  passed  a  frozen  lake  in  July; —  led 

Later  to  view  Vesuvius  roaring-red. 

So  Goethe  saw  it,  sitting  up  all  night, 

(Ah,  this  was  not  in  A.  D.  79). 
Those  buried  cities  flourished  once,  the  site 

Of  Saint  Pierre  as  gay  as  its  own  clime, 

Recalls  the  latest  tragedy  of  time, 
And  the  most  awful,  clothing  in  its  red, 
Red  burial-ash  that  city  of  the  dead. 


of     on  J>abar  263 


The  crime  of  Nature  is  the  crime  of  man, 

For  she  takes  on  with  us  in  thought  and  deed; 

We  dress  ourselves  but  in  her  looks,  we  scan 
The  gray  November  world  when  we  have  need; 
We  clothe  ourselves  in  her  dismantled  weed. 

So  Nature  shows  by  her  inquietude 

Man's  world  is  out  of  joint,  as  I  conclude. 

II 

Tell  me,  O  Zeit-giest,  Spirit  of  the  Age! 

Break  forth,  an'  if  thou  wilt,  in  prophesying; 
Mock  the  sad  augurs  when  they  would  presage. 

But  tell  me  true,  Are  faith  and  honor  dying? 

Some  say  white  Faith  has  left  the  world,  and  sighing 
Hope  for  a  season  bade  the  earth  farewell! 
Oh,  in  what  land  and  age  do  we  then  dwell? 

An  age  of  great  prosperity,  says  one, 

To  which  another  chiming  in  replies, 
'The  fairest  land  that  is  beneath  the  sun," 

What  more  do  you  want?  —  More  manhood  which 
decries 

Injustice,  and  the  piled-up  wrongs  that  rise 
From  laws  iniquitous;  what  good  to  me 
Your  land  just  rotten  with  "prosperity!" 

Look  at  the  armies  of  the  unemployed, 

Tramping  the  streets  of  our  great  cities  aye, 

A  thousand  petty  industries  destroyed 
To  make  one  monster  combination  pay; 
A  million  workers  out  of  work  to-day, 

And  the  "stand-patters"  here  to  legislate: 

Fine  times  are  these,  a  country  up-to-date! 


264  lemorial  Bolume 


Useless  old  men,  at  forty-five  deemed  old, 

Knocked  out,  thrown  down,  are  bundled  off  to  bed, 

One  sees  the  rapid  pace,  the  rush-line  bold 
Held  at  all  costs,  and  eke  the  falling  dead, 
Friend  or  acquaintance;  in  our  streets  the  red 

Autos,  with  all  rules  of  the  road  at  strife, 

Add  a  new  terror  here  to  human  life. 

The  frugal  life,  as  all  employment  fades, 
Becomes  a  question  of  the  what  and  how. 

When  boys  excluded  are  from  learning  trades, 
Divorced  from  earth  and  following  the  plow, 
Who  eats  the  bread  of  independence  now? 

For  which,  oh,  tyranny!  and  oh  for  shame  1 

Our  labor  unions  mostly  are  to  blame. 

Life  is  not  safe  in  our  great  cities  when 

E'en  mourning  friends  and  relatives  must  waive 

Their  farewells  to  the  dead,  or  going  then 
On  the  last  journey  even  to  the  grave, 
To  be  molested  by  some  wretched  knave 

Who  stops  the  hearse  wherein  the  corpse  is  drawn, 

And  shroud  —  has  it  the  union  label  on? 

Betwixt  these  unions  and  the  growing  vast 
Masses  of  capital  that  move  on  your 

Highways  of  trade  and  commerce  to  the  last 
Stronghold  of  power  to  win  the  kohinoor 
Of  laws  that  grind  the  faces  of  the  poor, 

What  chance  for  all  such  as  left  standing  be, 

Betwixt  this  devil  and  that  still  deep  sea? 


of     on  £atoar  265 


in 

This  year's  October  term  a.  suit  was  brought 
In  Northern  Securities  Company  case. 

By  People  in  the  U.  S.  court  of  last  resort 
To  test  the  right  of  "merger"  on  the  base 
Of  anti-trust  law,  which,  upon  its  face 

Forbids  such  action  in  restraint  of  trade; 

The  case  yet  pending,  the  vast  issue  made. 

The  gambling  dens  of  Wall  street,  and  the  wheat 
Pit  in  Chicago,  have  one  thing  to  fear; 

Knowing  the  government  is  hard  to  beat, 
They  dread  the  touch  of  that  Ithuriel  spear 
Which  makes  discovery  of  their  plots  appear. 

State  Legislatures  they  may  brush  aside, 

But  not  intimidate,  nor  buy,  nor  bribe 

Justice  that  sits  supreme;  but  when  that  is 
O'erswayed  by  power  or  money  in  the  scale, 

Gone  the  last  vestige  of  our  liberties. 

When  that  shall  fail  us,  Uncle  Sam  will  hail 
A  master,  and  plutocracy  prevail. 

If  that  should  be  —  far  off  yet  fall  the  year!  — 

Omnipotent  corruption  will  be  here. 

Of  social  customs  and  of  manners  which 
Have  deep  significance  and  mightier  power 

Than  laws  themselves,  the  passing  year  is  rich 
In  memorable  trophies;  it  has  struck  the  hour 
Of  freedom  for  divorcees,  and  the  dower 

Of  princely  fortunes  unto  dukes  and  earls, 

Who  stalk  their  game  in  rich  American  girls. 


266  Jftemorial  Bolume 

One  such,  enough  of  international  marriage, 
To  point  the  moral  and  adorn  the  tale. 

And  more  than  enough  to  note  the  shocking  carnage 
Of  New  York  women,  whom  the  altar  rail 
Excluded,  but  without  restraint  or  pale, 

Like  birds  of  prey  who  fight  for  places,  perch 

Upon  the  bride  —  mobbed  on  her  way  to  church. 

Take  it  for  all  in  all,  one  reader  knows 

No  rest  nor  peace  from  seeing  year  by  year 

How  crime  and  poverty  like  a  snowball  grows; 
If  peace  and  wealth  keep  pace,  yet  all  a-rear 
What  shapes  of  woe  and  wickedness  appear! 

The  desperate  shifts,  the  starving  hopes,  the  giving 

In,  at  the  last,  to  rob  men  for  a  living! 

The  list  of  murders  and  of  suicides; 

The  railroad  train  held  up  by  bold  outlaws; 
Boy  bandits  and  girl  thieves,  graft,  homicides, 

Lynchings    both   North    and    South, —  to   seek   the 
cause? 

Some  trace  it  to  our  monstrous  tariff  laws: 
So  multitudinous  the  evil  is, 
No  all-sufficient  cause,  not  even  this! 

'Twas  equal,  though,  to  one  fine  piece  of  work. 
We  promised  Cuba,  some  years  back  to  be 

Her  great  good  friend,  nor  "our  plain  duty"  shirk; 
Her  sponsor  to  the  world  for  all  that  she 
Required  to  live,  from  us  who  set  her  free. 

A  very  tuppenny  measure  of  relief 

We  offer  grudgingly,  too  late,  in  brief. 


of     of    £abar  267 


It  is  as  though  a  prosperous  gentleman, 
Having  a  world  of  things  withal  to  do, 

Said  to  an  urchin,  "Here,  my  little  man," 
Tossing  a  sixpence,  when  a  dollar  or  two 
Would  set  him  up  in  business,  —  "good  for  you!" 

But  no,  our  fine  beet-sugar  men  declare 

'T  would  ruin  them,  for  them  alone  forbear! 

How  was  the  Nation  brought  to  this  last  phase 
Of  foul  dishonor,  when  it  backs  and  fills 

At  such  vile  stops!  —  Suit  Addison-Cato's  phrase 
To  the  altered  case:   Is  there  no  bolt  that  thrills 
Red  with  uncommon  wrath  for  him  who  builds 

His  private  fortune  on  the  land's  undoing? 

Or  his  own  greatness  raises  on  its  ruin! 

IV 

O  vast  vicissitudes!  O  world  that  was 

In  years  before  the  flood!  the  now  and  then! 

If  I  prefer  the  latter,  'tis  because 

I've  heard  how  once  '  'stout  Cortez  and  his  men 
Stared,  silent,  from  a  peak  in  Darien." 

And  I  may  yet  —  if  this  with  that  agrees  - 

Live  to  behold  the  marriage  of  the  seas. 

Science  has  brought  the  trolley  and  the  tram, 
But  no  great  book  this  year  in  prose  or  verse. 

One  flying  round  the  towers  of  Notre  Dame 
May  thence  have  heard  its  organ  to  rehearse 
The  latest  rhythm  of  the  universe. 

Wagner  in  music  reaches  the  sublime, 

And  "Parsifal"  is  given  at  Christmas  time. 


268  emotial  Volume 


To  conquer  men  combine,  and  now  afraid 
Of  mustering  armies,  organize  a  trust. 

All  necessaries  under  contribution  laid, 
Yield  to  almighty  greed,  for  people  must 
To  these  tax-gatherers  come  "down  with  the  dust." 

And  since  men  rob  by  law,  they  wink  an  eye 

To  Justice,  and  to  Honor  say  good-by. 

Want  an  example?  look  at  U.  S.  Common, 
Of  "high  finance"  the  last,  best,  surest  way. 

A  steal  so  vast  required  of  steel  un-common 
A  pile  of  nerve,  and  power  to  get  away 
With  thirty  millions,  more  or  less  to-day. 

Was  it  all  water?  no,  life-blood,  about 

The  hearts  of  all  of  them  who  were  '  'froze  out." 

If  this  is  business,  why,  I  will  say  nix, 

Mirabile  dictu !  fitting  to  a  T 
The  brand-new  specimen  of  our  politics, 

This  wonder  year  of  nineteen  hundred  three. 

So  much  it  means,  I  think,  to  you  and  me! 
No  wonder  man  and  Nature  both  are  bent 
On  outward  signs  of  inward  discontent. 

Blow,  then,  you  whirlwinds!  hurricanoes,  spout! 
And  fling  your  sulphurous  and  destroying  blast, 

Ye  red  volcanoes!  so  involve  in  doubt 

The  fate  of  human  kind,  which  will  outlast 
The  remnant  of  an  age  to  men  long  past 

The  praying  for.     I  look  beyond  these  bars 

To  the  still  shining,  everlasting  stars. 


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NOVEMBER  BIRTHDAYS 
A  MONTH  OF  DIVERS   EMINENT  PERSONAGES  AND  POETS 

To  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  SUN  —  Sir:  The  birthdays 
of  many  celebrities  occur  during  this  month.  On 
November  7  fell  the  birthday  of  President  Fallieres  of 
France,  who  did  so  much  to  preserve  the  peace  of 
Europe;  November  9,  that  of  King  Edward  of  England; 
November  3,  that  of  his  Majesty  Mutsuhito  of  Japan; 
November  II,  that  of  the  King  of  Italy;  November  15, 
that  of  the  young  King  of  Portugal,  whose  lot  had  been 
cast  in  troublesome  times;  November  12,  that  of  Lord 
Rayleigh,  Chancellor  of  Cambridge  University,  who  is 
still  a  '  'senior  wrangler,"  although  under  his  presidency 
4  'the  factory"  which  made  them  has  been  closed; 
November  22  is  the  anniversary  of  Justin  McCarthy, 
who  notwithstanding  his  87  years  is  a  prominent  figure 
in  English  literature;  November  n  is  dedicated  to  Sir 
William  Schwenck  Gilbert,  who  has  made  the  world 
"grow  fat"  with  innocent  merriment;  November  30 
is  "Mark  Twain"  day. 

No  other  month  has  given  us  so  many  sweet  singers 
as  November.  At  least  four  of  those  '  'prophets  of  the 
beautiful"  whose  hymns  are  the  heritage  of  the  Church 
of  Christ  first  saw  light  in  November:  "Oh,  for  a 
Closer  Walk  With  God"  by  William  Cowper,  born 
November  13,  1731;  "Rock  of  Ages,  Cleft  for  Me," 
by  Augustus  Toplady,  born  November  4,  1740;  "In 
the  Hour  of  Trial,"  by  James  Montgomery,  born 
November  4,  1771;  "My  Faith  Looks  Up  to  Thee," 
by  Ray  Palmer,  born  November  12,  1808. 

In  the  wider  range  of  secular  song  there  is  a  perfect 


270  emorial  Bolume 


galaxy  of  November  bards:  Schiller,  Vondel,  the 
Shakespeare  of  the  Dutch;  Ewald,  the  Shakespeare  of 
the  Danes;  and  Nicolas  Boileau,  who  holds  a  well  de 
fined  place  in  French  literature,  were  born  in  November. 
So  too  were  Oliver  Goldsmith,  William  Cullen  Bryant, 
Mark  Akenside,  William  Shenstone,  Thomas  Chat- 
terton,  William  Blake,  "Owen  Meredith,"  and  Hans 
Sachs,  the  shoemaker  of  Nuremberg.  It  was  on 
November  7  that  the  great  Persian  poet  Jami  was  born 
amid  the  snowy  hills  of  Herat  nearly  500  years  ago. 
Was  it  in  this  dreary  month  that  the  Mystic  dedicated 
his  poem  with  the  prologue: 

Unfold,  O  God,  the  bud  of  hope.     Disclose 
From  thy  eternal  Paradise  one  rose 
Whose  breath  may  flood  my  brain  with  odor  while 
The  bud  leaf  liplets  make  my  garden  smile. 


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